Keep Calm and Carrion
by I'm Over There
Summary: AU. Of course Sherlock Holmes didn't hire the actor Richard Brook to play the criminal Jim Moriarty. Molly Hooper did.
1. Role Reversal

**Hello!**

**A "carrion" is a corpse if you didn't already know (you probably already did or looked it up). I like puns. **

**It's been far too long for my friends that I promised this story to and far too long for myself since I've wrriten anything. I feel dead when I don't write and you can tell I'm just coming off of that since I write kind of crazy in the A/Ns whenever I do. **

**Sorry, if you're new have no idea who I am and what I'm talking about. I'm Hannah and it's nice to meet you. Thank you so much for clicking on my story and I really hope you like it! **

**The basic plot for this AU story is that Molly Hooper pays Richard Brook to be Jim Moriarty and interact with Sherlock Holmes on behalf of her so Sherlock doesn't know about her criminal activities and sees her as trustworthy and nonthreatening. She's not a criminal mastermind in the sense that Moriarty is, and she isn't a 'consulting criminal' but she does have an intense fascination with Sherlock. Her personality doesn't change. She acts like herself but also happens to commit the occasional crime for reasons that will be explained. But it's always the quiet ones, isn't it?**

**You probably already know this too but Molly's blog is real and can be found online. All excerpts from and descriptions of her blog are from that one. I can't post a link, sorry, but you can google it and it'll be easily found. **

* * *

Molly Hooper's blog was pink.

And not_ just_ pink, but pink and decorated with stockphotos of kittens (still with the thin white Xs slashed across them that site they'd been copied and pasted from put to prevent that very copying-and-pasting from occurring), their backgrounds carelessly deleted leaving a gray uneven trim around their edges that stood out against the pink (again) and various clashing colors (blue, orange, brown, green) of the floral background.

…and the dark maroon font she used was Comic Sans.

_Comic Sans! _

(The most overused and outdated font from the rise and fall of AOL.)

The blog looked childish, overly girly and unprofessional; just some silly computer-_ill_iterate woman with too much time on her hands had made a blog to share her silly thoughts because she thought she was more important than she was and that people actually cared.

That's how it _looked._

…but the very fact that she had created her own website, with its own domain name and its own template (background, foreground, text—a comment feature, even) proved her competency with computers and the internet. She could've built a better website if she had wanted to.

But she didn't want to.

She_ wanted_ anyone happening to see her blog to think that she had no idea how to use a computer or the internet. She _wanted _anyone happening to see her blog to think she was childish, overly girly and unprofessional.

And most people _would,_ too. Most people wouldn't notice the little details that put together created a picture of sloppy stockphoto kitten and an expertly programmed background that was just _wrong._

But Sherlock Holmes was _not _most people and Molly Hooper wanted him to notice. She knew that if he saw her blog, he would…

...the only problem with that hope was that Sherlock Holmes had not noticed Molly Hooper enough to even know that she had a blog—let alone look it up himself.

Jim Moriarty had, though. He had noticed Molly Hooper and he had looked up her blog. And Jim Moriarty was not most people, either.

He wasn't even real.

* * *

Oh! How can I delete this?! I meant to say 'you-know-who' not his name!

Don't read this! Nobody read this!

(Molly Hooper 26 March 00:12)

.

Hi, sorry, are you the lady who works in the morgue? The one with the nose?

(Jim 26 March 00:14)

.

Who are you?

(Molly Hooper 26 March 00:15)

.

Sorry! I work in the IT dept. Stupid night shift.

(Jim 26 March 00:17)

.

Are you all right? You've gone quiet...

(Jim 26 March 00:22)

.

Sorry. I'm just feeling a bit silly. I didn't know anyone read my blog.

What's wrong with my nose?

(Molly Hooper 26 March 00:26)

.

Nothing. It's a cute nose. I hope you don't mind me saying.

I'm here all night so I need more coffee.

(Jim 26 March 00:28)

.

Okay.

(Molly Hooper 26 March 00:30)

.

Do you like coffee?

(Jim 26 March 00:32)

.

Yes

(Molly Hooper 26 March 00:34)

.

Would you like to meet for coffee? In the canteen?

(Jim 26 March 00:35)

.

Erm... okay. 5 minutes?

(Molly Hooper 26 March 00:40)

.

See you there!

(Jim 26 March 00:41)

* * *

(March 26 1:45 AM, St. Bartholomew's Hospital Canteen.)

It was almost two in the morning and so the canteen was almost empty. _Almost,_ except for pathologist Molly Hooper, come upstairs from the morgue in order to drink a cup of coffee that tasted like dirt with a man who she had never met named 'Jim'.

Molly doubted 'Jim' was the mysterious internet man's_ real_ name.

People rarely ever used their real names on the internet, it was the perfect anonymous place to tell lies and becomes somebody else.

So who was 'Jim'?

Jim was hurrying nervously down the hall wearing khakis and an untucked buttondown, carrying a cup of coffee from an outside chain in both hands. He glanced around but smiled when he saw Molly, standing on the edge of the doorway to the canteen, and tried to wave, almost causing the cup in his left hand to spill.

He was younger than Molly guessed he would be.

She had for a moment thought he was younger than her, even, because of his big eyes (dilated because he had just been outside in the dark) but when he handed her one of the cups of coffee (the one he had not almost spilled) the veins on his hands gave away his age as probably older than her. The lines on his face, which she could see in better detail now that he was standing directly in front of her, seemed to betray this fact as well.

Jim had a toweringly high forehead that would have made him remind Molly of Mycroft Holmes, had he been half a foot or so taller.

_Would Mycroft send somebody that looked like him to collect the information, just to make sure he didn't confuse stupid little Molly Hooper?_ Deceptively shrewd Molly Hooper wondered. _That was their deal wasn't it? _She would make a blog post signaling she had information about Sherlock Holmes and Mycroft would somehow (he hadn't specified) collect it.

* * *

(January 30th, a damp and poorly lit abandoned warehouse.)

Mycroft Holmes (who didn't look "very frightening") had, about thirty minutes ago now, sent military doctor John Watson on his way after being summoned to this damp and poorly lit abandoned warehouse somewhere in the city of London, escorted by his personal assistant that now seemed to be calling herself 'Anthea' (it wasn't her real name, of course, but she did always have a fondness for Greek mythology) in a fancy black limousine.

John Watson had refused Mycroft's offer of a "meaningful sum of" money (and told him not to even bother giving him a figure) in exchange for spying on his brother Sherlock Holmes. Now John did not know that Mycroft was Sherlock's brother, but having to explain to John why he wanted—and _had_—to spy on his own little brother(rather than just call him up and ask how he was every once in a while) would have made the situation even more complicated and dramatic than it already was…

…and so Mycroft decided to leave it at a Bondesque spy drama of fancy black limousines and poorly lit abandoned warehouse and intrigue rather than turn into a soap opera of rich bickering brothers.

Umbrella in hand, tapping impatiently on the ground, Mycroft sat in the uncomfortable plastic chair he'd offered John. John had refused that offer, too, and had stood there like the good soldier he was despite the psychosomatic limp in his leg.

Mycroft should have known better than to try to enlist John's help in doing something so…_illicit _as spying for money. John was a moral man; a soldier that followed orders, yes, but also a doctor and a doctor first. He wanted to do what was _right_, not what he was _told._ And John's military training and experience made him very hard to break. Mycroft couldn't scare or threaten him into working for him—he probably even couldn't _torture_ him! And so Mycroft should have known better than to try to bribe a moral doctor and well-trained soldier into spying for money.

…but perhaps Mycroft would have more luck with the quiet, accommodating female pathologist at St. Bart's that Sherlock easily persuaded into giving him body parts for his experiments and evidence from police cases just by being tall and having blue eyes and bow lips. She had already shown she was willing to break the rules, do something wrong, if she had the right reason to (namely, Sherlock Holmes) and so Mycroft could use this to his advantage.

Sure, Mycroft wasn't as young and handsome as Sherlock, but he did have money. And when it came to women, money was often much more attractive than even, well, being attractive. And if money didn't convince Molly to spy on Sherlock for him, then Mycroft could threaten to report what she had already done for Sherlock to her bosses unless he helped him as well.

Finally Mycroft received the buzz in his pocket and pulled out his mobilephone to read the text from Anthea stating that Molly Hooper was being sent into the big, damp and poorly lit room. He quickly stood up from the chair and moved to stand across from it, leaning on his umbrella casually as if he had been standing there the entire time he'd been waiting.

Mycroft heard her footsteps first and then saw Molly shuffle into the room, glancing around at its size and in confusion, and finally finding Mycroft (and the black plastic chair) in the center, ominously expecting her.

"Ah, Miss Hooper." Mycroft greeted, "I've been expecting you. Please have a seat." He gestured to the chair across from him and smiled politely.

Molly sat down, ankles crossed and hands in her lap, on the chair and looked up at the mysterious standing man who'd for some reason summoned her to an abandoned warehouse. She didn't know yet who he was or what he wanted (or how much_ he_ knew), but she knew enough to play innocent and dumb.

"That was quite…frightening," she said, faking a shaky fake calm, "but impressive too, you know? Calling me on my mobile in the morgue, telling me what I was doing and where I was standing, giving me instructions to leave the hospital and get into the car waiting outside. I've never been kidnapped before, so this is exciting, but I know you won't hurt me if you want ransom."

"I don't want ransom." Mycroft scoffed, as if surprised she had suggested it (although he wasn't, "I'm well aware of the fortune you've inherited from your father, however, I'm not interested in being paid. As you can see, I have more than enough money to buy this old warehouse just for our meeting here today. Besides, holding you for ransom would be useless. You're the only one with access to your money. You have no family that will help you and only three acquaintances that can barely pass as friends. You're very alone in this big world Miss Hooper."

"I don't mind being alone." Molly confirmed, "When I'm alone, I can think. When I'm not and there are other people around I can't—I mean I_ can, _but the thoughts get jumbled and so do the words when I try to speak and nothing ever comes out right...and why _am_ I even telling you this?"

Mycroft smiled, again, just slightly. "Because you have no one else to tell. Like I said, you're alone."

Molly swallowed.

_Who was this man and how much did he know about her? Could he have figured out what she'd done and be holding this meeting to get her to confess? _

Mollyhoped not._ Sherlock_ was supposed to be the one to figure her out and he hadn't even figured out that there was anything to figure out yet!

_Molly Hooper had only met Sherlock Holmes two times before he beat a cadaver with a ridingcrop for one of his cases today. The two times before he hadn't even recognized or remembered her and those two times she hadn't had the courage to even speak to him._

_But early today, while he was torturing that corpse, she had finally spoken up and asked him if he'd like to get coffee with her._

_He had answered "black, two sugars"._

_And she had actually brought it up to him. He had said "please" and "thank you" but Sherlock Hooper was completely oblivious and uninterested in Molly Hooper._

_(Although that same day Sherlock Holmes also met John Watson. He was not oblivious to or uninterested in him.)_

_Later, Sherlock came back to the morgue for the ridingcrop. Molly picked it up to give to him._

_"Put that down, you shouldn't be touching a weapon like that." he'd said, "Could be dangerous."_

_Molly had giggled like a school girl and handed the ridingcrop to him. She had thought he was joking. Sherlock raised an unimpressed eyebrow, took it and left._

"What do you want from me, then?" Molly asked, "Who are you?"

"You asked Sherlock Holmes out to coffee today." Mycroft recounted.

"Yes." Molly nodded, "…How did you know?"

"The same way I know about you, who you are and where to find you." Mycroftsaid ambiguously and ominously, "I have eyes everywhere."

"You have control of the CCTVs." Molly realized, "…that means you work for the government!"

"Brilliant deduction." Mycroft patronized, chuckling, "You're almost as good as Sherlock Holmes himself."

"Why did you ask me about him?" Molly asked, pretending not to notice that she was being made fun of.

"Because despite all my government resources; CCTVs, money, cars, warehouses…" Mycroft answered, "…you have the one thing I don't have. The trust of Sherlock Holmes."

"He trusts me?" Molly rephrased, taken aback.

"Enough to let you bring him coffee and drink it without first measuring its pH to check if it is poisoned." Mycroft reasoned, "So yes, I would say that he trusts you."

"And he doesn't trust you?" Molly deduced.

"Naturally not." Mycroft affirmed, "I am from the government, after all."

"He only trusts me because I'm too shy and small for him to see me as a threat." Molly reasoned, staring down at her lap and speaking softly as if ashamed, "He doesn't even notice me…"

"And that was makes you _perfect."_ Mycroft declared.

"…'perfect'?" Molly repeated, "For what?"

"For spying on him, of course." Mycroft stated as if it was obvious.

"Spying?!" Molly exclaimed in alarm, "Why would you want me to spy on Sherlock? Is he under investigation."

"No, no, nothing like that." Mycroft dismissed, with a wave of his hand that wasn't holding the umbrella, "…And I hope you're not one of those skeptics suspecting that one day he might be the cause of the same kind of crimes he solves—or that he is one truly responsible for those crimes. Because he is not and will not ever be."

"Then why do you want me to spy on him?" Molly questioned, furrowing her brow.

"Sherlock Holmes does dangerous work, and his work is his life and so he lives a dangerous life." Mycroft explained, matter-of-factly, "I want you to spy on him for me so that I can make sure he is safe. I want to know what he is doing, where he is going and what cases and experiments he is working on. I'm worried about him and I wouldn't want him to get…_hurt."_

He sounded as if he was lying. Because he sounded like he was lying, Molly believed him.

"You really mean that, don't you?" she responded, looking up and meeting Mycroft's eyes, "You really _do_ care about him."

"Brilliant deduction." Mycroft said, again, softly with a confessing smile. This time he wasn't patronizing her.

Molly was silent for a moment, thinking of what to say next and finally deciding to ask "why would I agree to betray Sherlock's trust and spy on him for you?" instead of prying into why this mysterious government man cared about Sherlock Holmes.

"It's simple." Mycroft replied, "Because you like him—"

"If I like him, why would I—"Molly interrupted him only to be interrupted herself.

"Because you like him," Mycroft repeated, "and you want _him_ to like _you._ Right now he doesn't notice you. He takes one look at you and knows everything about you—or, at least he _thinks _he does. He sees nothing of interest and so he's not interested in you. But wouldn't you like to _surprise _him? Wouldn't you like to_ fool_ him? To fool the man who sees and knows everything? Wouldn't you like to _prove him wrong? _To be_ interesting?" _

"Interesting…?" Molly considered, "So you think if I spy on him he will find out about it."

"No, and I'm almost certain he won't." Mycroft countered, "But it'll be a hidden mystery for him to solve. And if he _does_ notice, he'll be on the case and won't rest until he finally finds you out. And then, I guarantee you he won't be angry—he'll be excited, he loves these games, and he'll interested. In you."

"But you don't think he will figure it out." Molly reminded.

"I don't…but you can, if you wish." Mycroft allowed, "It can be a wager between us, if you decide to spy on him for me. You can try your best to fool Sherlock Holmes._ I_ think you can do it. _You _think you can't._ I_ think Sherlock won't notice. _You_ think he will. You're smart, Molly Hooper, and Sherlock doesn't see it. Doesn't see _you_…so let_ us_ see if he ever does."

"And if he doesn't?" Molly inquired.

"Then you will be the woman who outsmarted Sherlock Holmes." Mycroft decided.

"With your help." Molly added.

"'No man is an island'—and no _woman_ is either." Mycroft troped and modified, "You don't have to be all alone. It isn't as if Sherlock has no help. He has his Homeless Network and John Watson, his new flatmate, for example. And he has you too, as well."

"Not if I agree to your plan." Molly conditioned.

"No, he won't, not in the same way…" Mycroft agreed, "But then _you_ might have _him. _And that's what you want, isn't it?"

"Yes." Molly admitted, "I do want him to notice me. And so I'll do it. I'll spy on him for you."

"I knew you would." Mycroft smiled, "And you will be paid for your help."

"I don't need the money, which you already know, but thank you." Molly accepted, "…And how do I contact you to give you the information?"

"You have a blog, don't you?" Mycroft checked.

"Yes, I do." Molly confirmed, nodding and then laughing, "…I didn't know anybody knew about it. So should I post the stuff about Sherlock on it?" (a stupid idea, of course, but she wanted him to think she was stupid.)

"No." Mycroft said, "Whenever you have information about Sherlock Holmes make an irrelevant post on your blog. I'll see it and I'll contact you."

"Okay." Molly agreed.

* * *

(March 26 1:47 AM, St. Bartholomew's Hospital Canteen.)

On the off chance that 'Jim'_ wasn't_ Mycroft Holmes's employee and just some random hospital employee, Molly had to act 'natural' ('natural' being the completely unnatural best behavior people put on when first meeting someone—especially a potential romantic partner (not that she saw this 'Jim' person as a potential romantic partner. Sure, he was alright looking but it was hard to really see anyone else with the image of Sherlock burning in her mind whenever she closed her eyes.))

"Molly, right?" Jim greeted as he handed Molly the lidded cup of coffee, "I'm Jim. From IT."

"How did you know it was me?" Molly asked, accepting the cup and taking a sip. It was still warm, but Jim's hand had been hot since he'd just run in from rushing all the way to and back from the only coffeeshop in the area open at this hour to get slightly better-tasting coffee.

"Well, we agreed to meet and you're the only on here." Jim chuckled, taking a sip of his own (almost spilled) coffee, "So I just assumed."

"I mean how did you know what I look like before?" Molly specified, "You said on my blog that you think my nose is cute."

"Oh…right…" Jim recalled, and then paused as if he was thinking of what (lie) to tell her.

Molly's eyes narrowed.

This 'Jim' person would have told her by now if he was working for Mycroft Holmes…_So who was he? How had he seen her before?_ She never went upstairs to the IT department, just to the morgue and the lab and that was it. The two had had never before crossed paths so _how _did he know her name and how she looked?

It was too suspicious_. What if Mycroft, the government, some other party, or Sherlock Holmes had figured her out and had sent 'Jim' to investigate? _

Before Jim could say (lie) anymore, Molly took another sip from her cup…

…and 'accidently' fumbled it in her hands, spilling coffee all over Jim's nice white buttondown. If he was wearing a wire it would shortcircuit and become visible through the fabric.

"Oh my goodness, I'm so sorry!" she cried automatically.

Jim also cried out in surprise (and pain because the coffee was pretty warm), jumping back and then accidentally spilling his own coffee on his shirt as well, further staining it.

Both their cups and lids were on the tile floor below.

But instead of cursing or shouting at Molly, Jim laughed.

"Well that certainly woke me up." He declared, matter-of-factly.

"I'm sorry." Molly said again, then matching his laughter with her more embarrassed and polite version, "Let me help you clean up. The toilet's just down the hall. I'll wash it for you in there."

"Okay." Jim agreed.

And so together they trekked down the hallway in the direction of the bathrooms.

* * *

(January 30th, the back of a fancy black limousine.)

Molly was used to wearing a seatbelt while riding in a vehicles (she'd seen so many car accident 'victims' (of their own stupidity) who'd been thrown from their cars during a crash because of not wearing a seatbelt) and so she felt even more uncomfortable than she already did in this strange, scary situation of being summoned by a mysterious government man to a damp, poorly-lit abandoned warehouse, because the back of the fancy black limousine she was being driven back to work in did not have seatbelts.

Seated next to her was the mysterious government man's personal assistant, who'd introduced herself as 'Anthea' (and then promptly added that it wasn't her real name, she had just always loved Greek mythology) and seemed more interested in her smartphone than the woman she was currently escorting.

Still, she finally said "You haven't said anything."

"I'm sorry." Molly apologized, "Was I supposed to have?"

She turned to look at Anthea but Anthea didn't look up at her. London was speeding by in a blur on both sides of them (except when there was traffic, then it stood still).

"No, but my last passenger was more talkative." Anthea recounted, "He tried to ask me out on a date. Silly, wasn't that?"

"I won't try to do that." Molly joked (or, at least_, tried_ to),"…Not that I'd ask any woman out, I'm not a lesbian—not that there's anything wrong with that…oh gosh, I've done it again…"

"You weren't this awkward around my boss." Anthea commented, with a snort and a raised eyebrow, "…You weren't attracted to him."

"You were watching?" Molly asked, quickly adding, "That doesn't mean I'm not attracted to men. I am. He's just…not my type. Not that I would be his. He was wearing a ring—but he had one on his other hand, too, so I'm not sure if he's married. Is he? Nevermind. Why does that even matter?"

There. That rambling was enough to assure 'Anthea' (and her boss) that Molly was flighty and fumbling and certainly not any kind of threat.

Anthea looked up from her smartphone to giggle into her free hand and then turn to smile at Molly.

"I was only teasing you." She informed, "Just like those girls in school did. The pretty ones who you never had the nerve to stand up to. The ones that I remind you of."

Molly blinked in surprised and confusion.

"How did you know about that?" she asked despite knowing that probably every single girl had been teased by other girls while in school and so Anthea's 'deduction' about Molly was a common fact about most people.

"Because there are always those girls." Anthea explained what Molly already knew (which she didn't know Molly already knew), "…and I wasn't always one of them. I used to be like you before I was the kind of girl almost everybody, male and female, is intimidated by. I just modeled my current persona off of the childhood fear that nobody ever grows out of. It works every time on everyone_—well, almost everyone…"_

Now she was rambling. Not as much as Molly had been, but just a little. She'd been put at ease by Molly's behavior. Put _off guard. _

"That's really smart…but why are you telling me?" Molly asked.

"Because I don't have any friends, any family because of my job." Anthea answered, "I've got no one else to tell." She laughed once and almost embarrassedly.

She was trying to befriend Molly. Or manipulate her.

Molly went along with it.

"And your boss is alright with this?" she questioned, skeptically.

"Why wouldn't he be?" Anthea shrugged, "He chose to hire you. That must mean he trusts you." (It didn't of course, but she wanted Molly to think that.)

Molly smiled and matched Anthea's laugh with equal almost-embarrassment. "Well," she said, "Everybody does."

* * *

(March 26 1:50 AM, St. Bartholomew's Hospital.)

Molly and this so-called 'Jim from IT' had stopped in front of the two individual doors, one leading to the men's room and the other leading to the women's.

"I can take it into the women's with me…" Molly suggested.

"I'm not taking my shirt off in the hall." Jim refused, "I'll just go in with you. You don't mind, do you? It's late so nobody else'll see me."

"We could both go in the men's, then, if you'd prefer." Molly suggested.

"No way." Jim refused, "The women's smells better."

"Well, then let's go before the stain sets." Molly decided.

And so, after looking both ways to make sure no one was watching (other than the security camera on the ceiling), they went into the women's restroom.

Inside they were met by white plastic, tile and ceramic that reflected the overhead light making the room very bright.

Jim stood still in his stained white shirt.

"I'll wash it for you." Molly offered again, moving next to the sink and holding out a hand, "May I have the shirt please?"

Jim smirked.

"So this is what you wanted all along." He ventured, "To get me alone in the toilet and make me take off my shirt."

"No!" Molly exclaimed, "I'm sorry! I just wanted to help—"

"I know, I know." Jim laughed, "I was only kidding. But I do have to warn you, I'm not in my best shape at the moment so I've got a bit of a stomach."

"I don't mind." Molly said.

Still, Jim didn't move. "Turn around." He requested, sounding a little annoyed as if she should have done so already and waving a hand.

Molly turned around.

She watched his reflection slowly unbutton his brown-stained shirt in the mirror above the sink she was facing. He did have "a bit of a stomach" but quickly sucked it in, then allowing Molly to turn back around.

He handed her his shirt and she stuck it under the warm running water of the sink, spraying some of the stain off, before leaving it to soak under the flow and growing pool (although there was no drainstopper).

"You're not wearing a wire." She commented, scanning his bare chest. His chest hair was growing back as if he had previously waxed it but then didn't bother or have any reason to maintain it.

"What? Why would I?" Jim asked, blinking and taken aback, "I mean I'm an IT guy and all but I'm not that obsessed with wires and stuff. Or do you mean a _police _wire? Are you under some kind of investigation or something?

"I was kidding, too." Molly giggled, smiling.

"Oh." Jim laughed, smiling back at her. The he turned and glanced over at the sink, "I feel bad making you wash it like that. I don't want to be sexist."

"It was my fault it got stained." Molly reminded.

She turned back to retrieve the white shirt from the sink, watching Jim in the mirror as her hands picked it up out of the water and twisted the excess out of it.

Once she had turned around his stomach had returned to normal and he was scratching it (hair growing back in was always itchy). Did he not understand what a mirror was? Even the well-dressed men were stupid slobs under their clothes. (Or, at least, the ones that weren't were gay (but what did that mean for Sherlock…?))

Molly shook the shirt flat to get the final drops of water out of it like she was shaking a rug to get the dust out of it. Then she draped it along the edge of the draining sink to dry.

When she turned back around to face Jim, he was slim and trim and smiling again.

"Thank you." He thanked, "…but I wish I hadn't spilled my coffee, too. Then I would have it here to spill on you so you would have to take your top off for me. But that would be rude of me, wouldn't it? Making you take off your shirt for me. And I hate being rude. I'm a gentleman and so instead, I would do it for you. Slowly. Caressing your skin and kissing your lips all the way. I'd keep my eyes closed the whole time, until it was all the way off and then I'd let go, open them and admire the sight."

Molly's eyes widened at the very forwards statement, instantly put on edge.

Maybe this 'Jim from IT' wasn't a secret detective or government agent. Maybe he was just some sleazy guy who had gotten born of watching pornography during the nightshift and so decided to try to reenact what he'd seen with a real woman.

"I've got to get back to work now…" Molly stated, already turning towards the door to go.

"You can't leave me in here in the woman's toilet alone." Jim prevented, sidestepping to block her exit, "I'll get security called on me and lose my job."

"No you won't." Molly countered, "No one is here."

"Exactly." Jim declared, "So let's have some fun…" He took one step towards her.

"You're being very inappropriate!" Molly snapped.

Instantly, Jim jumped back away from her and out of her way, covering his face in shame.

"I'm so sorry!" he sobbed, "I was just trying to be…_smooth,_ you know? Confident. But now I see I've gone too far. It's late and I'm not used to being up this late, I just started the night shift this week and I haven't even actually had any coffee yet. I'm sleepy. And I'm really sorry. Please forgive me, Molly. You can go now, if you want to…"

Molly stared at him, unsure of what to think. It was like 'Jim' was two different people and he couldn't decide which one of them to be. _Was he serious?...Or was this some sort of trick?_ Either way this man had issues and was definitely dangerous. She watched him, sobbing into his hands, his face obscured and head bowed, until he was no longer sobbing and was laughing again. _Yes._ Definitely dangerous.

"What's so funny?" Molly asked, feigning timidness.

Jim raised his head to look at her, removing his hands from his face. "I've just made a fool of myself in front of you, is all." He answered, "I didn't want to do that. I really like you."

Molly took a breath. "How did you know what I looked like before you met me?" she asked for the second time that early morning.

"I work in IT, remember." He reminded, "I was bored so I browsed what other IDs were checked in for the nightshift. I saw yours and you looked cute in your picture. Your nose, especially."

"I look awful in that picture." Molly disagreed. She glanced down at the ID badge pinned to the white labcoat she was still wearing despite being on break.

"No you don't." Jim insisted, "I think you're pretty."

"I'm the only woman on the nightshift, aren't I?" Molly 'deduced', folding her arms.

"…you caught me." Jim admitted, chuckling, "I still think you're cute, though. And your blog, too. Googled your name and it came up. The kittens are adorable. You've got a cat, don't you? I love animals. I don't have any pets though, my building doesn't allow them. Maybe I can stop by your place and see your cat sometime?"

"…maybe." Molly replied, guardedly. This man was on a mission.

"Tonight?" Jim attempted, hopefully.

"No." Molly denied, "We're both working all night anyway."

"Oh, you're right…" Jim realized, sighing, "Oh well, then. But you know I did see you gushing about the detective you've got a crush on your blog. I can't help but think I'd have a chance if he weren't around." He leaned against another one of the sinks, also folding his arms.

Molly's entire consciousness lit up at the mention, not even by name, of Sherlock Holmes. Her eyes widened, her muscles tightened and her breath caught.

So that was what this was about. _Him._ This meeting with the mysterious man from IT was somehow really about Sherlock after all.

"You mean Sherlock Holmes?" Molly inquired, playing along, "I don't 'have a _crush'_ on him. And it wouldn't matter if I did, anyway, he isn't interested in me."

"Is he gay?" Jim asked.

"No, I don't think so…" Molly considered, biting her lip, "Why?"

"I went to his website as well, and his flatmate's blog, too." Jim told her, "After all your talk I had to. But two grown men in their mid-thirties flatsharing like that? You've got to wonder…"

"So what did you think?" Molly wondered.

"I told you." Jim said, "I think they're both gay."

"No, I mean about Sherlock." Molly rephrased, "You saw his website and John Watson's blog. You read what Sherlock is capable of. He's brilliant, isn't he? A genius."

"I'll believe it when I see it." Jim dismissed, rolling his eyes.

"You're just jealous." Molly teased. Her words sounded more spiteful than she'd meant them to sound, though.

"This Sherlock Holmes bloke can't be all that great." Jim insisted, "He may be smart, sure, and a good detective but he'll never like you as much I do. And he could never do the things for you_ I_ could."

And that was it.

Whoever 'Jim' was, whoever he worked for, whatever he wanted…it didn't matter. Molly had to get rid of him. She'd gotten rid of other people who'd caused her problems in the past (or insulted Sherlock Holmes) and this 'Jim' was no different.

Molly smiled sweetly but nervously. Her closed-off demeanor seemed to cautiously open up. _Seemed_ to.

"You really like me?" she checked.

"Yes." Jim nodded enthusiastically, "I really do." His eyes and his smile were wide and eager but also insincere.

Molly pretended not to notice, smiling shyly down at her feet, her own eyes wide as she finally looked back up him like a cat. Cats were cautious and not often friendly but once one got to know them they could be incredibly affectionate. They also could be dangerous. Sharp toothed and clawed.

"Then I suppose you could come over to meet my cat." Molly decided, "His name is Toby."

"Great!" Jim exclaimed (a little too forcedly), "You want to go right now?"

"No." Molly said, shaking her head, "You can meet me downstairs at the morgue when our shifts are over." She was a 'good girl'. She didn't break the rules and skip out on her shift early to go home with a strange man she'd just met.

"…um…I don't really wanna go to the morgue." Jim replied, uncomfortable, cringing a little at the very thought of a cold room full of dead bodies, "Can I meet you outside instead if that's alright?"

"Yes, of course." Molly allowed, quickly, "Sorry for suggesting the morgue. I forgot that it isn't a place where most people ordinarily go."

Jim laughed off the residual awkwardness then said, "Yeah. Well, I'll guess I'll see you at six then", to which Molly nodded. He then turned to go.

"Wait!" Molly called after him, causing him to stop suddenly and turn around.

"Yes?" Jim asked.

"You forgot your shirt." Molly giggled. She was holding the still slightly damp shirt up towards him.

Chuckling again he reached out and took it from her, then struggling to put the wet thing on. "Thanks." He said once he'd managed.

"See you at six." She parroted, beaming sweetly (at an almost sickly level).

She then waited for Jim to leave the woman's restroom before leaving herself and returning downstairs to the morgue and her work.

* * *

(March 26 6:33 AM, Molly's house.)

Mycroft Holmes had been correct about Molly's substantial inheritance from her father. In addition to a lot of money it included relatively large victorian-style house in the nice neighborhood she'd spent half her childhood in.

"Nice place you've got here." Jim troped, glancing around, once she'd unlocked the front door and led him inside and down its long, dark halls (she rarely bothered to turn on the lights) towards the dining room.

The room itself and its table were too big for a single woman living alone with only her pet cat for company. Molly sat Jim down along the longer side of the table before going into the kitchen.

From the kitchen she asked him, "Can I get you anything? Water? Tea? More coffee? Some wine?"

"I'm not really a wine-lover but if you're having some then I will too." He called back to her.

Toby, the brown-striped and white-trimmed tabby, crept into the room in order to locate the source of the voices (one of them unfamiliar) that had awoken him. In the dark Jim didn't notice him as he entered the dining room and left, and he didn't ask about the cat that was supposedly the reason for his visit to the woman he'd just met's house.

Molly reappeared from the kitchen carrying two glasses (regular, not actual wine glasses) of what looked like red wine (although Jim couldn't see it very well in the darkness). She set them both down on the table, one glass closer to her and the other closer to him.

"Switch them." Jim smirked. He stood before Molly had a chance to sit down across from him.

"You're joking, right?" Molly laughed.

"Yes." Jim confirmed, "But do it."

"_Really?"_ Molly asked flatly, in offense.

"Alright, alright." Jim surrendered, "Let's just drink."

"Okay." Molly smiled.

They lifted their respective glasses.

Molly was about to drink from hers when Jim said, "Cheers?"

"Cheers." She returned cheerily, moving her glass in the direction of his.

Jim brought his glass towards hers, then 'accidentally' fumbled it in his hand, spilling its wine all over Molly's white labcoat (which she hadn't yet taken off despite being home and about to have a drink). If the wine had been poisoned he wouldn't have to drink it now.

"I am so sorry!" he exclaimed.

Molly just stood there, eyes wide in shock and staring across the table at him, her labcoat soaked in the red liquid that looked in the darkness like blood.

"You did that on purpose." She accused. She set down her glass of wine with a deliberately punctuating thud. A few drops popped out and landed on the tabletop.

"Guilty." Jim grinned, "…It's just I couldn't wait any longer. I want your clothes off right now."

"…okay…" Molly agreed, unenthusiastic and even sounding slightly disgusted.

She pulled off her white labcoat, draping it over the chair in front of her and then began to pull off the shirt she wore beneath it.

Jim stood across the table from her, smirking as she did so and finally again laughing when he couldn't contain himself anymore.

"You were really going to do it, weren't you?" he chuckled, "You were really going to sleep with a man you just met. A man you were about to poison."

"_Poison?!"_ Molly repeated. Her shock was too intense to be real.

"I spilled it all over you." Jim affirmed, "You had to take off your pretty white coat and shirt so it didn't soak through onto your skin and kill you."

Now wearing only her bra on her torso, holding her shirt in her hands, Molly turned and walked halfway around the long table to over to Jim who had also moved from where he'd stood to meet her in the middle, at the head of the table. A pushed in chair that had not seated anyone since her father had died was the only thing between them now.

"…who are you…?" she asked.

"Richard Brook." He answered, "I'm an actor."

* * *

**Thank you for reading the first chapter! **

**More will be explained in the next few chapters including how Molly knows Mycroft's name and what she has done that she vaguely alludes to. **

**Please tell me what you think and if you want me to continue! **


	2. Dramaturgy

**Hello again! Sorry about the delay! **

**It's difficult to write dark!Molly without changing her personality but I think I may be sort of getting the hang of it a bit. Same with Rich, the nice noncriminal (but still pretty shady) version of Jim. **

**Hope you like it! **

* * *

(January 30th, the back of a London taxicab.)

After her clandestine meeting with the mysterious government man during which she agreed to spy (for money) on Sherlock Holmes (who she was already faithfully following—meaning she would be getting paid for something she would be doing anyway), Molly Hooper returned to Saint Bartholomew's morgue and continued her work for that day as if she had simply taken a late lunchbreak (she didn't even eat lunch) until her shift was over and it was time to take her nightly cab home.

Molly Hooper took cabs because Sherlock Holmes took cabs.

She could afford a car—or a _car service_—if she had wanted one (or both). She could even afford not to work, for that matter, with the money she inherited from her father. But she liked to keep herself busy and keep up appearances (as if people were actually paying attention) and be like Sherlock Holmes and so she bustled into the back of a standard black London taxicab as she did every evening after her shift.

As usual, Molly stated her address and attached the polite and meaningless "please" and "thanks" to the end of her request with believable enthusiasm, despite being a bit tired after doing autopsies (rigor mortis was difficult to slice through) and very distracted after having had a clandestine meeting with a mysterious government man.

"I know." The cab driver replied, as usual as well. He knew who he was picking up and where she was going.

They did this every weekday evening at 6:06 PM. Still, Molly liked to keep herself friendly but distant. She preferred acquaintances to close friends.

Acquaintances were superficially polite, always putting on their best façade for the public. Friends and family were cruel to friends and family because they could get away with showing who they truly were.

Molly knew how people truly were and she didn't like it. She didn't want people to know who_ she_ truly was, either. They wouldn't like it. _She _didn't even like it. And so she lived life like a masquerade ball where everyone wined and dined each other wearing happy masks in a room of beautiful colors.

"I know." Molly parroted back the third lyric of the call-and-response, with a polite and distant smile as she stared out the window watching the hospital glide away as the cab left the curb.

And that was often the extent of the conversation until she reached home and said her "thank you" again. But today, the cabbie, Jefferson Hope, spoke up, much to Molly's surprise.

"Your boyfriend Sherlock Holmes stopped my cab today." He said, casually.

He was facing the road, one hand on the steering wheel but he glanced back in the rearviewmirror to gage her reaction to his words.

Molly blinked and instantly turned away from the window to look at the back of his head.

"Has he figured you out?!" she questioned, urgently.

"Not yet." Hope chuckled, "He should have, though, with all the things you've said about him and everything I've read. He knew enough to stop my cab but not enough to figure out it was the lowly driver, not the hotshot passenger, that he was looking for."

"He'll realize his mistake by the end of the night." Molly declared, certainly, "If not sooner."

"And if he doesn't?" Hope ventured. Molly could see his raised eyebrow in the rearview.

"He will." Molly insisted, "…and when he doesn't you can't mention my involvement, no matter what he does to you or offers you, or your children get nothing."

"I know, I know." Hope accepted, then adding hopefully, "Maybe if he catches me, he'll kill me…or maybe I'll kill him."

"No." Molly forbade, instantly.

In concert Hope brought the taxi to a sudden halt in the already slow traffic due to allow a family of pedestrians to cross the street in front of them. He politely waved them on as Molly experienced slight whiplash.

"I'm just gonna play the game with him, is all." Hope consoled, "And if he's smart as you say, he won't be in any danger. He'll choose the placebo and I'll choose the poison of those drug study pills you altered for our arrangement."

"And if he chooses wrong?" Molly asked, returning the raised eyebrow which Hope would have seen had he not been watching the children and their father cross the road.

"And here I thought you had faith in your messiah to beat death." Hope sneered, "If your detective can't beat a sick old man like me in a simple gamble then he isn't worth your time and affections, 'sweetheart'."

Molly grimaced in disgust.

The cabdriver had always tried to act fatherly towards her, but it was also always snide and he had been divorced from his wife and alone for a long time now.

"That's something my dad would've said." Molly commented, "You remind me of him, you know."

"Is that so?" Hope inquired, carefully idle and uninterested but watching her in the rearviewmirror again as he continued driving ahead through the city.

"I poisoned him to death." Molly expanded.

"…oh." Hope replied, returning his eyes to the road ahead.

They were silent for awhile as he drove, after that, until they'd left the densely populated area of the concrete and cars, and were rolling slowly through the quieter neighborhood in which Molly lived where the buildings were further apart and had green lawns.

However, when they had stopped in front of her house, before Molly paid and exited the taxi she asked "When and where are you going to play the game with Sherlock?"

"Tonight." Hope answered, "This little further education college. It's undergoing renovation, so its doors are unlocked and its security cameras are down."

"Take me there." Molly ordered.

"What?" Hope said, taken aback.

"Take me there." Molly repeated, more slowly and matter-of-factly, "I want to watch what happens so I can make sure that no mistakes happen that will leave your children without their substantial inheritance and insurance payout."

"Fine." Hope shrugged, "If you insist. But what if your Sherlock sees you?"

"He won't." Molly dismissed, "He never does."

"Alright." Hope accepted, with a nod, "I'll leave you there and then I'll go pick him up. We'll play our game in the chemistry lab, it'll be dark and so you can hide in the next room."

"Okay." Molly accepted, with a nod, "And are you sure you know which pill is which?"

"Always do." Hope affirmed.

And so the taxicab turned around and drove away from Molly's house.

* * *

(March 26th, Molly's house.)

The monotonous rush of the washingmachine eventually became a white noise to Molly Hooper, the pathologist, and Richard Brook, the actor, as they sat in the laundry room. In the machine was Molly's white labcoat and shirt, both wine-stained, as well as Rich's white buttondown, coffee-stained. Seated on the currently motionless dryer next to it was Rich, and seated on the adjacent table used for folding clothes was Molly.

Neither of them were wearing shirts.

"So what are those little things?" Rich asked, examining his view with a raised eyebrow, "B cups?"

"That's none of your business." Molly refused, narrowing her eyes and bringing her knees up to cover her chest.

"I'm right, aren't I?" Rich continued, smirking, "I'm really good at guessing that sort of thing. All the time spent backstage with women in the dressing rooms, you know, seeing them get fitted. I've got a good eye. For clothing and sizing, that is. You don't have to worry about me, Miss Hooper."

Molly nodded, understanding his implication, and lowered her knees. "Doctor." She corrected, "I'm too old, I think, to be called 'miss' anymore." It was a polite way of telling him not to be condescending.

"Alright, _'doctor'."_ Rich agreed. He smiled and was still condescending.

Molly sighed, "So you want a job from me?"

"Yes." Rich confirmed, with a nod, "I do."

"Doing what?" Molly inquired, raising an eyebrow.

"Acting, of course." Rich answered, "I'm an actor. And I know you have enough money to pay me."

"And what would I need to hire an actor for?" Molly questioned. This she was genuinely confused about. She wanted to hear the story behind why this 'Richard Brook' person believed she would need an actor working for her.

She also wanted to find out how much he knew about her and who he found out whatever information he had from. (That was the reason Rich was still alive right now.)

"To interact with Sherlock Holmes on your behalf." Rich stated, "The way that cabbie responsible for the 'serial suicides' did."

"You met Mr. Hope, didn't you?" Molly realized, "How much did he tell you?"

"He told me he was going to die." Rich recounted, "I asked why and he explained everything. How he was diagnosed with a brain aneurism and hid it from his family. How he became depressed and gambled all his money away. How his wife finally divorced him after the years of emotional abuse and he had to live in his cab for months until he could afford a tiny flat to live in. How he met you and you offered a solution to his money problems—and his love for gambling _and_ hurting people. How he was on his way to confront Sherlock Holmes for you and die."

"He told you all that?" Molly asked, taken aback, "How long did you know him?"

"I met him once." Rich chuckled, "Gave me a ride one night."

"Mr. Hope was smart." Molly said, "He wouldn't reveal his life story to just anyone, some fare in the back of his cab."

"I'm not 'just anyone'." Rich scoffed, "Old Jeff recognized me from TV. He knew I'm an actor and a good one, too. He said his kids used to watch this show I narrated. He also knew I'd be needing a new job…"

"You were fired." Molly assumed, narrowing her eyes, "Why would I hire someone who couldn't keep their old job?"

"Because it proves how skilled an actor I am." Rich reasoned, "It was why Jeff knew my talent. I played a clean-cut, Catholic kid's show host for years and if I could pull that off he knew I could play whoever you needed me to be."

"But you were caught." Molly countered, "Whatever it was you were hiding from your bosses, they found out about it and fired you. What was it?" She asked even though she knew it could only have been one of four possibilities.

"You'll never guess and I'll never tell." Rich smiled, "But it's not what you're thinking."

Molly sighed. "Even if you're as good an actor as you say you are that still doesn't explain why Mr. Hope would tell you about me. Why would he think I'd need an actor?"

"As a replacement for him after he died." Rich replied, "And not just that, but an _upgrade."_

"And how do I know you're not just some kind of investigator?" Molly considered, "Mr. Hope wouldn't tell all about himself and all about me to a stranger he'd just met, regardless if he'd seen you on television or not. Everything you told me about him, the aneurism and the divorce and the debt, those are medical and public and financial record. The authorities would have access to those. So how do I know you're not just using that information to put me at ease and make me 'confess' to whatever crimes you may believe I'm guilty of?"

"You don't know for sure," Rich admitted, standing up, "…but I can do another strip show for you if you want proof I'm not wearing a wife. Take of my pants—my underwear, too, if you want to be _absolutely sure_…" He smirked and even winked.

Molly knew Rich thought she'd be too uncomfortable 'call his bluff', and so Molly had to—not only to make sure he indeed wasn't wearing a wire but also to show him that she wasn't afraid and would _not_ be manipulated. If he was going to work for her (she hadn't decided yet) then he would need to respect her.

"Do it." Molly ordered.

Rich blinked in surprise. "Okay…"

Molly folded her arms and eyed him expectantly.

(And she listened for the sounds of his fellow agents breaking into her house to save him. There was no noise except the washingmachine.)

Rich unhooked his belt, unzipped his fly and allowed his pants to drop to the ground. He paused and glanced up at Molly to see her reaction.

Her face was blank. (He'd hoped for a blush from her, at least.)

Still, when Rich smiled sheepishly and puts his fingers on his underwear, Molly said "stop, that's enough".

"I take it you_ didn't _like what you saw." Rich gathered as he pulled his pants back on.

"I like that you're not recording me." Molly shrugged.

"How do you know it's not in my underwear?" Rich asked, cheekily.

"It's too small." Molly shrugged. It was revenge for his earlier comment about her cup size. She smiled, just a little.

Rich rolled his eyes, laugh unenthusiastically, and hopped backwards back up to sit down on dryer.

"So you trust me now?" He hoped, "And you'll hire me?"

"Why can't you get another job as an actor?" Molly questioned, "It's for the same reason you were fired, isn't it?"

"Well, yes." Rich admitted, "I basically I got 'blacklisted' back in Ireland, not officially or anything but nobody in the entertainment industry will hire me anymore. I came to London thinking it would be different in the UK but apparently it isn't. You said Jeff lived in his cab for months? We'll I've been staying in a cheap hotel and in a few weeks I won't even be able to afford _that_ anymore."

"You must be very desperate for work to want to work for me—if you believe whatever Mr. Hope told you about what I've done." Molly considered, "But then again, you were fired for a reason. Maybe you don't have any morals to compromise."

"I'm show business, you know I don't have a soul." Rich scoffed, "But I don't believe everything Jeff told me about the things you've done."

"What don't you believe?" Molly inquired.

"He told me you murdered your own father." Rich stated, "But I think you only told him that to scare him. He thought the same. He said you mistakenly thought he was coming on to you and you wanted him to back off. But he wanted me to assure his affections towards you were solely paternal."

"I told him he reminded me of my dad." Molly remembered, "He had already mentioned I reminded him of his daughter. He said it was why he didn't try to poison me. That, and I was polite to him."

"Yeah, he said I reminded him of his son, too." Rich assumed, "But I thought it was you who got him started on that Princess Bride thing."

"It was my favorite book growing up." Molly explained, "Before he met me, Mr. Hope was pointing a fake gun at people and making them overdose on paracetamol—_Tylenol—_and then leaving them by the side of the road somewhere in the city. I recommended he be more creative."

"To get Sherlock Holmes' attention?" Rich suspected.

"Yes." Molly admitted.

Rich snorted. "Jeff told me you were obsessed with that bloke. I'd ask why but you'd probably just tell me the same thing you told me in the toilet at the hospital. He's a 'genius' and all that."

"He is." Molly asserted.

"I know." Rich accepted, "So will you hire me to interact with him for you or are you still going to try to kill me?"

"If I'm going to hire you, I'll have to see how good of an actor you actually are." Molly termed.

"You already have." Rich reminded, "I fooled you into thinking I was 'Jim', from IT, didn't I? And that was the first time I'd ever been to that hospital, too."

"You were good enough to fool _me."_ Molly allowed, "But you need to be able to fool _Sherlock Holmes."_

"How do we test that?" Rich asked.

"You meet him, talk to him, let him look right at you." Molly described, " And if he's unable to see the truth about you and instead sees a lie—the character that you're playing—and believes it, then I will hire you."

"Okay." Rich agreed, nodding, "I can do that."

"We'll see…" Molly said, skeptically.

The washingmachine beeped, its motion and rocking noise slowly stopping until the room was silent.

Rich looked at Molly and Molly looked back at Rich. They stared at each other for a long moment until Molly finally raised an eyebrow and Rich realized that she expected him to get up and remove the laundry from the washer and put it into the dryer.

Once he'd realized it, he jumped up and did what he was supposed to.

* * *

(January 31st, the morgue.)

It was only six in the morning when Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade strolled into the morgue of St. Bartholomew's hospital to ask if the medical examiner on duty had finished the autopsy of the serial killer cabbie who Sherlock Holmes had caught the night before and who had been randomly shot by a man "probably with a history of military service", "nerves of steel" and "actually, do you know what, ignore me" (as described by the criminal's catcher Sherlock Holmes himself).

At only six in the morning medical examiner Molly Hooper was just finishing up her night shift and so was still there in the morgue to answer "Yes".

"So was there any identification on the body?" Lestrade followed up, glancing away from Molly at the naked, dead old man on the metal slab.

The corpse had been sewn back up, its eyes closed and a white cloth draped over it as a thin useless blanket in the cold room. (Yes, _'it'._ Once Hope had died, he was no longer a person; just a _thing_ to pick apart and put back together. It didn't matter that Molly had known Hope while he was alive.)

"No." Molly shook her head, "There was only cash in the wallet. No ID or creditcards."

"No taxi license?" Lestrade checked, "The man was a cabbie."

"I didn't find anything in the man's clothes." Molly shrugged, "Maybe it's in his taxi."

"Officers searched the vehicle, they didn't find it." Lestrade stated, also shrugging and shaking his head.

* * *

(January 30th 10:00 PM, outside Roland Kerr Further Education College.)

Molly had waited alone in the building until Jefferson Hope's cab returned to park exactly in front of the further education college undergoing. She watched from a window upstairs as Hope and Sherlock exited the vehicle and then entered the identical building next to the one she was in.

Hope had done that on purpose. He had led Sherlock into the building that Molly _wasn't_ hiding in so that she_ wouldn't_ be able to watch him and Sherlock play his deadly game.

Molly wanted to sneak into the building next door but knew it was too risky to try, especially since Hope's gun was fake and Sherlock would probably know it was fake and so could walk away from the confrontation whenever he felt like it (for example, if he heard someone else creeping around the building, attempting to spy on him).

So instead, Molly went back outside of the college and opened the (left unlocked since Hope had been busy with Sherlock and forgotten to lock it) front door of Hope's taxicab and climbed into the driver's seat. With gloved hands, she removed the photo of his children (wife cut out of the picture) and any other forms of identification (insurance and car information, medical documents, receipts) out of the glove-compartment and passenger's seat. Finally, she popped open the trunk and checked it, just in case, closing it after she'd found nothing that could be used as evidence to identify the cabbie (or possibly link him to her).

After she was finished and walking away from the cab down the sidewalk, thinking that she would never see Hope alive again (and refusing to consider that it might be Sherlock she'd never see alive again), she had to duck into a dark alley when she saw John Watson, Sherlock's new flatmate, sprint by towards the further education college, gun in hand.

Pressed up against the damp side of a brick wall, holding her breath she thought to herself that Sherlock didn't _need _John's help or protection. Sherlock was a genius! He could take care of himself! He didn't need _John._

…and if he trusted and befriended John, then he would be too preoccupied to notice that he needed _Molly._

* * *

(January 31st, the morgue.)

"Another killer without a name, without any loved ones." Lestrade commented, with a sigh and another headshake, this time down at the dead body, "Same old story."

Molly smiled. "Well it saves us the paperwork," she joked, "Unclaimed bodies can be put to better use, too. For teaching or experiments. Maybe Sherlock could do one of his experiments on the body."

"Sherlock was the one who caught this old man." Lestrade informed, "But it was an 'unidentified shooter' who killed him."

"Oh, really?" Molly feigned surprise with wide eyes and ovular mouth.

"Yeah," Lestrade nodded, then chuckled adding, "After what happened the paramedics decided that Sherlock was in shock. They put him in a bright orange shock blanket and made him sit on the back of the ambulance for twenty minutes. Some of the uniforms snapped pictures."

"That's funny." Molly giggled politely, "I hope orange was his color." She needed to see those pictures. She knew she should have stayed at the college.

"Well, not exactly but Sherlock's fine now." Lestrade said, "He and his new flatmate went out to eat. His flatmate's a doctor and so he was able to get Sherlock away from the paramedics. But the man's also ex-military too, and when Sherlock described the shooter, John Watson—that's the flatmate's name—fit the description. Of course, Sherlock realized what he was saying and said it was all the 'shock' talking but Sherlock wasn't _really_ in shock. He'd been through much worse than that—trust me, I've seen the aftermath—and he knew _exactly_ what he was talking about."

"So you think it was the flatmate who did it?" Molly inquired, "This… 'John Watson' person who shot the killer? Should I rule his death a homicide?"

"No." Lestrade denied, "I mean, I haven't got any proof. It's all speculation so I probably shouldn't have even said anything. Besides, even if the flatmate _had_ been the one to kill the cabbie, he would've done the right thing, killing a serial killer and saving Sherlock's life, not to mention anyone else who might've been killed by him if he hadn't been shot….But it's just that because he's a genius, Sherlock thinks everybody else is an idiot. I may not be as smart as he is but I'm not stupid, either and I think Sherlock owes me some thanks. I've kept him out of trouble more than once and he repays me by hiding evidence for important cases."

"He solves them in the end, though, doesn't he?" Molly reminded.

"Yes, and that's why I put up with as much as I do from him." Lestrade confirmed, "But just a little_ respect_ would be nice every once in a while." He sighed again, the chuckled again, "I don't know why I'm complaining about this to you, though. Sorry about that."

"It's okay." Molly allowed, with another, wistful, smile, "Sherlock can be…_odd _and even a bit rude, at times, too so I know what you're feeling. But he is a genius and good at what he does so I guess that makes it okay, doesn't it? I mean, geniuses are often eccentric. And it's awe-inspiring watching him work, I've never seen anything—no, _anyone_ like him before."

Lestrade raised an eyebrow at her words. He had seen her wistful smile and was more perceptive than Sherlock gave him credit for.

"That's true but don't go getting some silly crush on him, now." he warned, laughing to cushion the very serious advice, "I probably shouldn't be telling you this either, but I am because you need to know what you're getting into before you make the same mistake. Listen, it happened to my sergeant. A female officer about your age, I won't use any names. She got a little crush on Sherlock Holmes when he first started consulting for the Yard. Tall, pretty eyes, flowing dark hair—you know, all the women notice him. And when they see him work, how smart he is, they react just like you. Well, my sergeant, she tried her best to befriend Sherlock, to work with him and help him—she even tried to impress him, but he just wasn't interested. He called her stupid, the way he calls everyone stupid and turned her down, the way he turns every _woman_ down—I won't say anymore about that, but I'm telling you now, it's not going to happen. And that's not because there's anything wrong with you, it's because Sherlock's just not capable of having a relationship, I think. You know he's not a 'people-person' and so there's no sense wasting your time on him."

"…okay." Molly pretended to accept, with a nod, "Thanks for telling me. But I don't have a 'crush' on Sherlock, anyway." She had tuned out most of what Lestrade had said. "Even so, whatever happened to the sergeant after that?" she asked.

"They're enemies now." Lestrade revealed, "She didn't take the rejection well. Now, they're always at each other's throats whenever they're on the same case together, and she's turned other officers against him as well. It's funny, in a way. She started out admiring his abilities and now she's against the unorthodox way he works."

_That_ Molly had listened carefully to. A story of a woman who admired Sherlock but ended up becoming his enemy. That _was_ something Molly _had _to heed as a warning. She had to make sure the same thing would not happen to her.

"How did you meet Sherlock?" Molly nonsequitured, because she wondered how long Lestrade had known Sherlock and it seemed to be pretty easy to get information out of him—at least for someone as unassuming and nonthreatening as her.

"Now that's an interesting story." Lestrade laughed, "It was five years ago. I actually arrested Sherlock, I won't say for what since the case was dismissed and the records deleted, but I wasn't DI yet and I found him snooping around a crime scene—not trespassing or anything, though. When I brought him in, he was giving me instructions on how to collect proper evidence for his own arrest and he had already solved the case that I had gone to the scene to investigate. I didn't believe him at first, of course, and before I could even check if he was correct, which he was, his older brother arrived to get him out and cover his arrest up. His brother works high up in the government and so he's able to do that. I'm sure he'd done it before since Sherlock already knew so much about the system—even though he technically wasn't in it. He didn't even want to go with his brother, who has a… _'unique'_ name like him, 'Mycroft', I think, but he was forced to and I thought I'd never see Sherlock again. Which bothered me for a few weeks since I later figured out he was right about who he said had committed the crime. But then, a month or so later, he was at another one of my crime scenes and at it again. He solved that case, too, and so I decided to bring him in as a consultant."

"Sherlock has a brother?" Molly checked in surprised. She honestly had not known that fact, "I didn't know."

"Sherlock doesn't talk about him much." Lestrade explained, "The two don't get along. Sherlock resents him for using his money and connections to try to manage his life. But the truth is his brother's just worried about him, for good reason, and wants to make sure he's safe."

"I see." Molly accepted. She now knew who the mysterious government man who hired her to spy on Sherlock was.

"Well, anyway, I'll collect the autopsy report and be on my way now, then." Lestrade finally decided to end his unrelated chat with Molly and return to work.

"Okay." Molly agreed, handing him the file folder she'd had waiting for him in her arms since he'd walked into the chilly room (luckily still wearing his coat and scarf—although Molly preferred that outfit on Sherlock).

Lestrade took the folder, thanked her, turned and left.

Once he was gone and Molly was alone in the room with the dead body of Jefferson Hope, she dared pull out the taxi license ID badge she'd recovered from the man's body…and the pink cellphone of Jennifer Wilson she'd found in his pocket.

After a quick glance, she hastily put them back. She was going to keep them.

* * *

(March 26th, Molly's house.)

Molly stood watching as Rich as he folded the warm clothes, fresh out of the dryer, into piles on the table she had previously been sitting on. The laundry room was silent.

"There." She said, finally and satisfied, folding her arms, "Good enough."

"Well, you only made me redo it three times." Rich replied, sarcastically, " 'Practice makes perfect', is what they always say. And 'third time's a charm', too, of course. But the real question is: who is 'they'?"

"Conventional wisdom." Molly explained, as if Rich's question was serious, "They are generations of people who know what they're doing from experience."

Turning away from the table to face her, Rich suddenly changed the subject to, "Can I move in with you?"

"What?" Molly responded, taken aback.

"You've got a big place here, lots of empty rooms I could stay in." Rich reasoned, "I told you I can't afford to live in the hotel anymore. And I've shown you I can do laundry so I can help around the house. Besides, you don't fully trust me yet, either, do you?"

"No, so why would I allow you to live in my home?" Molly returned.

"Because then you'd be able to watch me." Rich explained.

"And you'd be able to watch me, too." Molly echoed, "Which is exactly what you want if you were sent here to spy on me."

"If you actually believed I'm here to spy on you, I'd be dead by now, wouldn't I?" Rich suspected, "So you don't think that's what I'm here to do. But if you ever change your mind, you'd have easy access to me. To kill me…or to do other things, if you decide Sherlock isn't what you want after all…"

Molly rolled her eyes, adding a shaking head to garnish the expression.

"I'd never decide that. _Ever."_ Molly insisted, "But even if I did, I wouldn't be what _you_ want, anyway."

"So what?" Rich scoffed, "You aren't what Sherlock wants but that doesn't seem to deter you."

"Sherlock isn't _gay, _though_."_ Molly returned.

"That's debatable." Rich countered, smirking, "But I never said I was gay. What I said is I have a good eye for clothing. And good taste. In clothing and in women."

"But you said I wouldn't have to worry about you." Molly reminded, skeptically.

"And you don't." Rich confirmed, "B-cups just aren't my thing, you see. That's all I meant. So if you let me move in, I'll never put a 'move' on you—unless you ask me very nicely, of course."

Molly sighed.

"If I allow you to live here, then you'll have to do everything I say," Molly conditioned, "obey every rule I set, here and wherever we go. You'll be home when I ask you to and get out when tell you as well. You can't tell anyone that you're staying here or receive mail at this address. And if I ever suspect you of anything, there will be a consequence. I don't have to explain, you know what it is and it will happen if you do anything against me. Do you understand?"

"Uh huh." Rich nodded, "I understand."

"Good." Molly accepted, nodding once in return, "Now hand me my shirt, put yours back on and put the rest of the clothes in the basket."

"Yes ma'am." Rich smiled, matter-of-factly, then quickly completing the task assigned to him, Molly watching him work with folded arms and scrutiny.

This was going to be interesting…

* * *

**...hopefully lol.**

**Writer's block is slowing the story down so it loses momentum. Momentum is important. I need to work more quickly. **

**I hope you enjoyed this chapter and want me to continue. Do you like this Molly? Do you like Rich? Are they interesting, at least? **

** If you have the time, please review and tell me what you think!**


	3. Lucky Cat

**Brought to you from BIOLOGY 101 Lab. **

**Sorry for the wait and sorry it's short ! I hope you enjoy this chapter! **

* * *

(January 31st, 2010.)

She heard the screeches just before the middle of the night, she was walking to work through the city and hearing them she felt proud and content to know that she saw the same primal battlefield Sherlock Holmes saw when walking through urban, developed London.

The screeches were cats, though. Feral because they were scruffy in the dark alleyway, damp with garbage runoff and rainwater. Cats hate water.

Molly paused just outside the space between the two apartment buildings a few blocks away from the hospital, to watch the shadows of the cats under the streetlight. But by the time she arrived the felines had been scared off; one dashing away out the other side of the alley, the other hiding under the dumpster.

It's eyes flashed yellow-green when the headlights of a passing car drove by, behind Molly who stood on the sidewalk.

She bent down and extended her hand towards it.

"Come here." she called to the cat in a high voice, then trying the standard, "Here kitty kitty kitty."

It blinked and so Molly blinked back.

Cautiously, the cat began to approach. One paw after another in squeeze itself out from under the dumpster and crept over to the squatting human woman.

Once directly in front of her, it meowed.

"Hello there." Molly greeted.

But when her extended hand reached down to pet the cat's matted, slightly wet fur, the animal hissed and jerked back.

That was when Molly noticed the collar around the cat's neck. This wasn't a stray or feral cat, this was somebody's pet. Glancing under the cat, she could also see that it was a neutered male, meaning that it had probably been born in captivity. Why was it lost and alone outside? Where were its owners?

Molly stood up and turned to continue her trek to work. Upon glancing back as she did, she noticed that the dirty cat was following her.

She allowed it to the rest of her journey, and then (after checking in all directions to make sure nobody was looking) she opened the back, basement door to St. Bart's and let the cat into the hospital with her. They went quickly down the hall and entered the morgue together, the cat trotting just below the bottom of Molly's white labcoat.

It was polite and patient as Molly pulled her first 'patient' out of the metal refrigerated drawer...but once the dead body was stretched out on the morgue table, covered only by a thin white cloth, the cat hopped up on the cold table and began to nibble at the dead young man (killed in a gang fight).

The body was badly beaten and so Molly let the hungry cat eat awhile before pulling him off and plopping him back down on the floor. (It let her pick him up and disturb him while eating, another sign that it was a domesticated animal.) The tiny bite marks were unnoticeable among the cuts and bruises on the corpse, which had been found hidden in the abandoned warehouse an entire day after death and so was already slightly decomposed (although the weather in January was cold enough to keep it mostly fresh and prevent most bugs).

In her medical examination notes, Molly would write that some small animal (perhaps a cat or dog or a few rats) had gotten to the body before police had found it and EMTs had brought it to her in the morgue.

She wondered if the cat would digest it or just vomit the human meat chunks out later. (The latter option was more likely.)

The dead man's name was Tobias Benson and so Molly decided to name the cat 'Toby' in his 'honor'.

When, the next morning as Molly was finishing and cleaning up after her shift, she saw that the now sleeping in the corner cat named Toby had not thrown up his dinner, she decided to keep him.

* * *

(11:30 PM March 27th, 2010.)

"Now, I'll be gone for the next eight hours." Molly informed Rich, the front door of her house already half open and her body already half through it, "Don't go upstairs or back into the basement and don't answer the door to anyone. You can watch TV if you want to, though, or help yourself to whatever is in the fridge but there isn't much. Don't order any takeout to this address. If you're hungry you have to go eat out somewhere, don't bring any food back here."

"Why?" Rich asked, "You trying to stay skinny for Sherlock?"

"Sherlock believes that digestion slows the mental processes in the brain." Molly explained, "He doesn't eat that often and so neither do I?"

"And if Sherlock jumped off a bridge, would you do it too?" Rich smirked.

"If Sherlock were dead, what would I have to live for?" Molly returned, with a small smile.

And then she was out the door that closed behind her.

* * *

(6:00 AM February 1st, 2010.)

After commenting on Sherlock's website 'The Science of Deduction' and his new flatmate Doctor John Watson's blog as 'theimprobableone' (whom they still had not identified as her and probably never would although the name was quite obvious), Molly went upstairs to join her 'friend' Caroline for breakfast after the graveyard shift like she did every morning.

Conversations with the middle-aged and married Caroline consisted of gossip about the others who worked on the nightshift (who was sleeping with whom, who was bringing alcohol to or watching pornography at work, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera) and complaints about the hedge in front of her townhouse that's flowers never bloomed but who's branches and leaves always overgrew forcing Caroline to have to trim them once a week, even in the winters, and her husband, who didn't work, and never came home at night which is why she started working the nightshift anyway so they could spend time together but everyday he was always off drinking with his friends or watching football or cheating on her or something. It really gave Caroline a headache...

...and Molly one, too.

But she smiled and nodded and sympathized.

She wanted to kill Caroline.

* * *

(11:57 PM March 27, 2010.)

Instead of dead bodies waiting for her when she arrived downstairs in the cold morgue, Molly found two live bodies (one male and one female) dressed professionally, instead of in white cloths, and eager to talk to her.

"We tried to get in touch with you sooner, immediately after you posted that blog post." the female, Anthea greeted.

"But it seems you were otherwise occupied with a man named 'Jim'." the male, Mycroft, added amusedly because he enjoyed knowing other people's private affairs.

"I thought he worked for you!" Molly explained, embarassedly, glancing down at her shoes, "We talked for a while and by the time I realized he was just some guy...well, it just happened. Sorry." Now they would think that she was naive and romance-driven. The typical emotional woman. Not a threat.

"No need to apologize, Miss Hooper." Mycroft dismissed, "It's not our job to police your sex life. It's not our job to police your life at all. Only to monitor Sherlock Holmes's...and that isn't even a job at all, it's just a hobby."

"So," Anthea returned to the topic of their meeting, "what information do you have about him and his current activities?"

"He's on a new case now." Molly informed, "Hired by a friend from university, Sebastian Wilkes who works at a bank."

"A 'friend'." Mycroft chortled to himself, "Yes, I'm aware of Mr. Wilkes. How did you learn of the case?"

"A Detective Inspector told me." Molly said.

"Gregory Lestrade?" Mycroft asked.

"No...Dimmock, I think." Molly answered.

"Hmm..." Mycroft accepted, "I hadn't heard of him. Did he tell you what the case is about?"

"It's about two 'suicides' that aren't really suicides." Molly recounted, "Someone with extreme athletic and acrobatic abilities snuck into the homes of two men and murdered them. One of the dead men was an employee at Sebastian Wilkes's bank and the bank was also broken into in the same manner. The same killer also murdered a museum employee but didn't have time to make her death look like a suicide since Sherlock was right there."

"Interesting..." Mycroft considered, "How far has Sherlock come in solving it?"

"He figured out that the two male murder victims were part of a Chinese smuggling gang." Molly detailed, "They traveled to China on business and brought back valuable antiques to sell on the black market. The female victim was a Chinese immigrant and a former member of the same gang. The gang is called the Black Lotus Tong and their leader is a woman named General Shan."

"Black Lotus Tong?" Mycroft repeated, raising an eyebrow, "General Shan?"

"Yes." Molly affirmed, "Their code is in a tourist book, Sherlock figured everything out by reading graffiti on a wall. He—I mean it, it was amazing..." she trailed off when she realized Mycroft was no longer listening.

He had turned to and began whispering to Anthea who was typing quickly on the keypad of her smartphone. The names of the gang and its leader seemed to have sparked their interest and sounded familiar.

Molly stood still and quiet watching them.

"Anything else?" she inquired politely when Anthea glanced up at her.

"No, nothing else." Anthea responded, with a fake smile, "Thank you. Your payment had already been deposited into your account."

"Thank you." Moly responded, with a fake smile, "Have a nice evening."

Anthea and Mycroft nodded and then hurried past Molly out of the room and down the hall.

Once they were gone, Molly went to the refrigerated drawer to pull up her next corpse for autospy.

Her name was Shoo Lin Yao.

* * *

(11:02 AM, February 1st 2010.)

Molly, with Toby curled up ontop of her and the blanket between them, was attempting to get a good day's sleep after work in her heavily curtained bedroom when she heard the knocking downstairs, presumably on her front door. Waking from dreams of Sherlock, she rose (disturbing Toby) from bed and then descended the stairs to open the assaulted door.

In front of her stood the always-overdressed-for-the-occasion Caroline in a different dress than the one she had worn the work the night before and fake pearl necklace.

"Sorry to bother you." she began, "I found you address in the system and decided to pay you a visit. I hope I didn't come at a bad time."

"I was sleeping but it's alright." Molly allowed, "Come in."

She stepped aside to that Caroline could enter and she could shut the door behind her guest. Door closed, they stood in front of it awkwardly, Caroline glancing around the house.

"Such a big place for a single woman." she commented, "My house isn't nearly as big but my husband and I manage. Thankfully we haven't got any kids or else we'd have to move to a place like this. We could afford one, of course, but why waste the money when we don't need to? What do you do with all this room all by yourself?"

"I dunno." Molly shrugged, "I've lived in this house my whole life, it's been in my family. I couldn't imagine living anywhere else."

"Oh, I see." Caroline accepted, "Well, anyway you must be wondering why I'm here. You think I don't listen to you, but I do. I do listen and when you told me you had a cat I knew I had to come by and say hello."

"Oh." Molly blinked, taken aback, "Okay."

"I brought a can of tuna for it." Caroline smiled. She was wearing the same red lipstick Molly sometimes wore (when Sherlock was stopping by the hospital). She reached into her oversize purse and pulled out the sealed can. Once again, she glanced around, "So, where is it?" then, after not seeing the newly-obtained pet, attempting the standard "Here kitty, kitty, kitty!" bending down to extend the unopened can of tuna.

"I'm not sure where he is now, sorry." Molly apologized, "I found him outdoors so I let him roam the neighborhood. He's probably outside now."

"It's alright." Caroline forgave, "So what did you name it?"

"Sherlock." Molly declared.

"Hmm..." Caroline considered, taken aback and raising an eyebrow, "What a strange name. I've never heard it before."(Although Molly had incessantly spoke of Sherlock Holmes, genius detective, in their breakfast conversations each morning (and Caroline claimed to listen to her.)) "I could help you think of a better name, if you'd like...something cute and pretty, good for a kitty."

'Sherlock' a _'strange name'?_! Caroline had_ 'never heard it before'?!_

"Sure." Molly smiled, sweetly and falsely, "Would you like some tea while we sit and chat?"

* * *

(January to March 2010.)

_Dead bodies of Chinese immigrants appearing periodically, about once or twice a month, in the morgue; in their stomachs burst packets of heroin and opium. It wasn't a 'brilliant deduction'__ to realize that the dead were smuggling drugs. _

_All bodies had the same tattoo on their feet. Sometimes there were other symbols too, scrawled on papers on their pockets that matched graffiti on walls._

_When 'family members' came to collect the bodies, Molly saw exactly who was in charge of the smuggling ring. She got the members info (well the info of their IDs for living in the UK) from the paperwork and anonymously contacted them. _

_First it was just blackmail, to prove she was a criminal like them and not a police officer, but then she told them how to smuggle drugs better. They said they were antique smugglers and only branched out. when it went bad, they had planned to stop but now they could continue. _

_When the investigation happened, they told her about the bank and Sherlock Holmes. Molly encouraged their leader to come to the country so she could be killed for ordering them to kill Sherlock.__Molly bought them plane tickets and paid a bribe to a Chinese official to let them out of the country. They planned to come as tourists but Molly told them to come as circus workers knowing that would get Sherlock's attention._

_And it did._

_It brought Sh__erlock down to the morgue and even into the hospital cafeteria to see Molly._

_...but Sherlock also got the attention of the Black Lotus gang and they attempted to kill him._

_Molly did not forgive those who tried to kill Sherlock Holmes. _

_And so she informed Sherlock's brother, who also did not forgive those who tried to kill Sherlock Holmes, about this and waited for Mycroft Holmes and the British Government to punish General Shan's transgression. _

_It took one day. _

_And the very next day Molly was doing the autopsy of the Chinese circus conductor who was shot by the 'Chinese' government for 'escaping' the People's Republic and 'betraying state secrets to a NATO member'. Another tragedy of the evils of Communism. _

_Molly, ironically, had been chatting online with General Shan when she happened to get killed. They had only ever communicated online as she had never seen Molly in person and had no idea who she was. _

_'M' could have been anyone. _

* * *

(12:00 AM February 2nd, 2010.)

Molly had found the lost cat posters for 'Lucky' periodically on telephone poles, phoneboxes, busstops, and streetlamps. Toby's true owners were searching for him.

Molly snapped a photo with her phone of one of these posters one morning after work and put it on her blog along with a description of her new cat, what Mina had said and how Caroline had come over. The picture advertised that she had possession of somebody else's cat. (That is, if anyone actually read her blog—except for Anthea checking on behalf of Mycroft if Molly had any information on Sherlock).

Molly's nightshift actually began in the morning. 12:00 AM every 'night' (morning), Molly arrived at the morgue to begin work until 8:00 AM later that morning.

Tonight (this morning) she arrived at the morgue to begin autopsying the new corpse of the evening (morning).

Caroline.

Molly smiled as she cut the t-shaped opening in the woman's chest. This was her handywork. Not just the autospy, but the death itself. (Of course, nobody would ever know...Molly could protect herself by ruling the death accidental, but by protecting herself she also prevented herself from getting the credit.)

This wasn't the first time Molly had killed a coworker. After she'd first met Sherlock, she'd killed the old man who worked the nightshift at the morgue so she could get his shift.

...Ironically, of course, Sherlock had come in the next day—in the day time, before the scheduling had even been changed, to experiment on the body of the dead old man who'd donated his body to science. She hadn't even seen Sherlock at night since that first time she'd stayed late after her dayshift to help the old man (who was nice, after all, just in her way).

Molly had poisoned Caroline's tea.

The medical report reported no signs of strange chemicals in the body. It stated the cause of death as a heart attack. Not uncommon in women Caroline's age (early fifties) with high cholesterol. Completely believable.

Caroline's husband had ordered the autopsy. Not exactly grieving the loss, he wanted to prove that _he_ hadn't poisoned her so that he could collect the insurance payment.

Other employees of St. Bartholomew's somehow knew that Molly had eaten breakfast at 6:00 AM with Caroline every morning for the past few years (Caroline must have gossiped about that to them) and so they asked Molly if she wanted a few days off and not to do the autopsy herself since she had been 'close' to the unlucky woman.

Molly politely declined. They all thought she was brave for doing an autopsy of her dead friend.

* * *

(12:13 PM March 28, 2010.)

Molly had eagerly texted Sherlock to inform him that another person with the Black Lotus Tong tattoo on their foot had appeared dead in the basement morgue of St. Bart's.

He didn't text back.

...but soon Sherlock had come to the morgue to visit General Shan. (Molly was just sort of there.)

"Good morning, Sherlock." Molly greeted, hoping he would appreciate the correct time label, "How are you?"

"Show me the one with the tattoo." Sherlock ordered, getting straight 'down to business'. He was not wearing his usual coat or scarf and usually Molly would wonder why. But tonight (this morning) she didn't wonder. She knew.

"There." Molly pointed to the covered body on the morgue table, its feet and tattoo exposed.

Sherlock leaped over to stand at the corpse's feet and Molly scurried to stand next to him. He bent down so he was eye-level with the tattoo. Then he stood straight upright again, dwarfing the women (one of them dead and laying down) in the room and peering down at the dead body's face (clean bullet hole in the middle of the forehead).

"That is General Shan." Sherlock identified, humming first to himself, "She was the leader of the Black Lotus Tong."

"Really?" Molly said in 'surprise', "A woman in charge of a criminal organization?"

"Why does that sound strange to you?" Sherlock questioned, raising an eyebrow, "Women are just as capable of crime as men, although traditionally they have different methods. You are proof that women can succeed in the male-dominated medical field, so why not extrapolate your success to the criminal field? That sort of logical conclusion should come naturally to you, Molly..."

...hmm...

Sherlock's words sounded strange to Molly. Not completely out of character, but a little too female and Molly focused than Molly was ever used to hearing from Sherlock.

_...could that mean he was finally on to her? Did he hint that he knew she was also a criminal? Was he finally accepting her as an equal (albeit an enemy)? As someone worth his time and attention? _

"You're right." Molly agreed, "I just meant that it's surprising that in Chinese culture a woman leader was accepted-"

"There have been many female leaders in China throughout their long history." Sherlock interrupted and corrected, "The powerful Dowager Empress Cixi of the Qing Dynasty is one of the more famous examples."

"Oh, right." Molly accepted. She had never been very good at History, especially foreign history. "...so, Sherlock, what have you been up to tonight? Got a new case yet? she smiled.

Sherlock moved away from her and the corpse.

"The flat across the street blew up." he told her, matter-of-factly (and slightly annoyedly).

"Are you alright?!" Molly exclaimed in 'alarm' (although she was not at all shocked to hear what had happened).

"Well, I'm here, aren't I?" Sherlock returned, rolling his eyes.

"Yes, yes you are. " Molly nodded, then giggling embarrassed, "Sorry. So anyway, what happened?"

"I tried to investigate the matter but the 'authorities' kicked me out." Sherlock complained, then adding non-sequitorly, "...I wonder who killed General Shan...perhaps her own people in some kind of coup since she mishandled the antique smuggling, lost expensive merchandise and attracted so much attention to the gang with the murder investigation."

"What kind of 'expensive merchandise' was lost?" Molly inquired.

"A hairpin." Sherlock answered, "It's the reason the three previous victims were killed and the Black Lotus tried to kill John and me."

"All that over hairpin?" Molly gasped.

"Yes." Sherlock confirmed, with a nod, "A hairpin worth 90 million."

Molly's eyes widened in shock, "Are you going to look for it?"

"Why bother?" Sherlock dismissed, "I don't pin my hair. Besides, I know where it is. It's with the girlfriend of one of the dead English members of the Chinese gang. He gave it to her as a present, not knowing its value. She'll most likely sell it and retire."

"Not keep it to remember him by?" Molly checked.

"People aren't so sentimental when it comes to money." Sherlock scoffed, "But the very act of giving gifts or money to prove affection is laughable."

"Then how should people prove affection?" Molly asked.

"They shouldn't." Sherlock declared, "And they shouldn't feel it."

And at that, Sherlock had turned and dramatically strode away from Molly and the corpse of General Shan, out the door of the morgue room.

It would have looked far more dramatic had he been wearing his coat. But he had left his coat in his flat after rushing across the street in the direction of the explosion and then come straight from there to the hospital once Molly had texted him.

Molly knew this all, of course, because she had been the one to put the bomb there.

* * *

(8:21 AM March 28, 2010.)

Later that morning, Molly returned home to find Richard Brook asleep on her couch with Toby curled up on his chest.

* * *

**By the way, in my 'head canon' it was always Mycroft who had General Shan shot. In my hc it was also him talking to her, "gratitude is meaningless" sounds just like him but for the sake of this AU story 'M' stands for Molly. **

**Hope you liked this chapter! Please review!**


	4. Live like the Old Lady (Swallow the Fly)

**(9/20/2013) I TRIED TO WRITE THIS CHAPTER BUT THE SITE WENT DOWN AND HALF GOT DELETED. I HAD TO START OVER AND IT REALLY SET ME BACK. I don't know if I can write anymore if this keeps happening. It put me in the worst mood I've been in in a long time. I hate to complain about something so small but I feel really depressed and annoyed now. It's always the little things that get to me...**

**I wrote it again but it's not as detailed and probably not as good as the original. Sure, second draft's are usually better than first but I had to restart from scratch in a bad mood so...yeah. lol. **

**Sorry it's been so long, too. Excuses to follow: **

**I got a boyfriend and a job (in that order), meaning that I have a "life" now and so less time to write lol. But I'm sick so wrote a little today (9/17/2013) and (9/18/2013).**

**OK! Enough rambling. **

**The basic point is that this will be a rarely updated story until winter break when I will have more time (or I fall ill again). Sorry about that and if you lose/lost interest I understand. I'm not going to be as review-demandy as I was before since the update schedule is non-existent and "real life" seems to be fulfilling my self-esteem issues better now. lol. **

**Anyway, happy reading! **

**:)**

* * *

(8:28 AM March 28, 2010.)

Standing there for seven minutes Molly watched Toby's torso bob up and down ever-so-slightly with his breath (unnoticeable to anyone not paying attention with the same vigilance as a mother making sure her child is still breathing) and Toby's body bob up and down ever-so-slightly with the breath of the human he was sleeping on top of, Richard Brook, whose torso was also bobbing up and down ever-so-slightly.

Other than that (and Molly's breathing) the room was still.

During that seven minutes, Rich's mind slowly roused itself from sleep (noticing the stripes of sunlight sneaking in through the curtained windows, and the slow creaking of Molly unlocking and opening her front door) and brought him into consciousness. He moved, sitting up and causing Toby to wake up as well and leap off on him onto the hardwood floor.

He trotted across it until he found a sliver of sun under a window to spread himself out inside and return to sleep.

The curtains were gray and thick, but were old and so Rich, as he was opening his eyes, decided that they once were white. Everything in this room—_everything_ in this house in fact—was old. Not dusty, not falling apart, but just old. All the furnishings were well-cared-for antiques that had probably not moved from their places in decades. Like she had inherited the house, Molly Hooper had inherited everything inside it.

Molly flipped on the floorlamp by the door and closed the door behind her.

"I see you've met Toby." she began, nodding first at the cat asleep under the sun and then at Rich.

The room was brighter now with the artificial light and so Rich, scanning the sitting room, concluded that everything in this room—everything in this house in fact—was old. Not dusty, not falling apart, but just old. All the dark wooden furnishings were well-cared-for antiques that had probably not moved from their places in decades. Like she had inherited the house, Molly Hooper had inherited everything inside it.

"Oh? That's his name?" Rich affirmed, standing and give his nighttime companion a quick glance before looking at Molly, "He's cute. I told you I love animals and animals love me. I wanted to feed him last night but I couldn't find any catfood..."

"Toby feeds himself." Molly explained, evenly, "He 'loves' you because you smell like food to him."

"You're kidding." Rich smiled skeptically, folding his arms.

Molly's face was unreadable. Somewhere between a tired but goodnatured smile and an exasperated rolling of the eyes.

Rich didn't pry into the matter any further.

"You didn't have any _human_ food in the house, either." he said instead.

"I don't eat very much." Molly stated matter-of-factly, "Sherlock believes that digestion slows the mental process."

"Oh really?" Rich sneered, "You sure you're not just trying to stay skinny for him? Because I can tell you that _straight_ men like a woman with some meat on her bones. But then again, I don't know about your boy..."

"You've call Sherlock gay enough times that I'm starting to think you're just compensating for insecurities about your own sexuality." Molly retorted.

"You forget that I'm a performer. I did theater before I did TV and even before that I went to an all boy's Catholic school." Rich scoffed, "I've never been 'insecure' about sexuality but for most of my life it's been more convenient for me to play gay than straight. So I can do it for you too, if you want. I'm not embarrassed, I've done it before. And isn't that what your friend Meena said? That a single woman your age needs 'a cat or a gay best friend'? You already have Toby and since Sherlock won't be your 'gay best friend', I will and now you'll have both."

"That was an either-or statement." Molly corrected, "And just because you've had to pretend you're gay instead of straight doesn't mean that you're not insecure. It just means that you're accusing Sherlock of hiding something when you've hidden something similar in the past."

At those words Rich was temporarily speechless. He realized he had most likely revealed to much about himself while being too defensive, all for some stupid running joke he had only started making to annoy Molly (and not because he cared or even knew what Sherlock Holmes' sexual orientation was). Before his face turned red with minor embarrassment, Rich took a breath.

"I'm hungry." he said, "Let's go get some breakfast."

"It's dinner time for me." Molly informed.

"Okay, then." Rich accepted, "Let's have dinner."

* * *

(9:00 AM Feburary 2nd, 2010.)

Molly took cabs because Sherlock took cabs. She could afford it, like he could. Not with the money she made, but with the money she got from a benefactor. The same benefactor, in fact, that Sherlock (and John Watson, as well) _refused_ to take money from. It was a nice arrangement. She had found the money in her account when checking its status online.

She hadn't even given the mysterious government man any information yet. It must have been 'good faith' to prove he was actually going to pay her for spying on Sherlock (rather than say, killing her or something else less desirable than money). But this 'good faith' also meant Molly had to work on getting some good information for her new benefactor. _Soon._ Or the 'good faith' would disappear.

...but not so soon that the mysterious government man would realize that 'naive' Molly Hooper actually knew the rules to this kind of game and was _good_ at it too.

So Molly still had some time to come up with and deliver her findings.

And in that meantime, Molly had taken a cab to Baker Street because Sherlock took cabs to Baker Street.

Sherlock Holmes and John Watson were not home (out on a case) but Sherlock Holmes and John Watson were not who Molly Hooper had come here to see.

Molly exited the taxi the same time as Mrs. Hudson exited the cafe, Speedy', next door to 221 a, b and c. They both made their ways from opposite directions towards 221 a, b and c and met at the front door.

"Excuse me, ma'am?" Molly tapped on the older woman's shoulder.

"Yes?" Mrs. Hudson asked, turning around to face her.

"Are you the owner of these flats?" Molly asked.

"I am." Mrs. Hudson nodded, "I'm Mrs. Hudson. What can I do for you?"

"I was wondering if any of the flats here were still available for rent? You had an advertisement in the paper a while back."

"Well, the one I advertised has already been rented out...but I have another downstairs if you'd like to take a look."

"Yes, please."

Molly smiled and Mrs. Hudson smiled, unlocked her door and led her in.

* * *

Molly waited in the hall of 221a, right in front of the stairs to 221b, while Mrs. Hudson popped into the kitchen to get the set of keys for the basement door.

Molly so wanted to walk up those stairs and see the rooms where Sherlock lived, how and where he kept his things, what things he had. She imagined his flat would be messy but deliberate, organized chaos, that told the stories of the cases and experiments he was working on in the order of when he worked on them. The clues to solve Sherlock's genius mind would be in that mess, just like the clues to solve a case were in the mess of a crime scene.

(But Molly didn't even consider the influences of John and Mrs. Hudson who were forced to clean up after Sherlock daily.)

Molly blinked and glanced away from the staircase, turning towards Mrs. Hudson as she re-entered the hall with the set of keys.

* * *

The basement was dark, even with the lights turned on, and had the usual dust and dampness of disuse. It was almost empty, but some stray (and dusty) furniture remained.

"How long has it been since anyone lived down here?" Molly asked.

"Oh, years..." Mrs. Hudson sighed, trailing off as if there was more to the story of why it had been so long, "Sorry that I haven't tidied up down here in a while. But if you decide to rent, I'll clean it out before you move in."

"It has mold." Molly commented, pointing at the dark corners.

She and Mrs. Hudson were both taking shallow breaths from their mouths due to the smell. (But neither of them held their noses, of course, since Molly didn't want to be rude and Mrs. Hudson didn't want to acknowledge the smell.)

"I'll have it cleaned, don't you worry dear." Mrs. Hudson reassured, "And I'll give you a discount. A better price than anything else you'll find in this area, it's gotten quite expensive here lately. But it's a nice, safe area for a single woman like yourself."

"How do you know I'm single?" Molly questioned, raising an eyebrow.

Mrs. Hudson blinked, looked Molly up and down (for the second time that morning, the first was five minutes ago outside when she had decided she was single).

"Sorry, you're not wearing a ring but I shouldn't have assumed." she apologized, then adding "Women these days focus on their careers for much longer now than when I was young and I think that's a good thing. And as a matter of fact let me give you some advice. Never get married. _Ever._ Even if you've been with the man so long that you think you know him, never marry him. Because the truth is you never really know someone. Even someone you've known your whole life, almost. Even yourself."

"That's very...cynical." Molly commented, considering Mrs. Hudson's words of advice.

"I learned it the hard way." Mrs. Hudson recounted, "I lived in blissful ignorance with my husband for over thirty years until I found out who he truly was."

"Who was he?" Molly inquired, now interested.

"A serial killer of all things!" Mrs. Hudson exclaimed, with a sad laugh, "He'd murdered his wife and a string of other women in America and escaped here to London, changed his named and married me. I might've been his next victim myself, if it wasn't for my tenant, Sherlock Holmes, who figured it all out. He's a detective, you might have heard of him."

"The name sounds a little familiar..." Molly confirmed.

"He was just a university student at the time but he gathered enough evidence for my husband to be extricated back to the US and executed, too, since they've still got the death penalty there." Mrs. Hudson continued, "Sherlock saved my life when he found all of my husband's trophies,down here in my husband's workshop...and I probably shouldn't have told you about that, since I'm trying to rent you this the rooms he used."

"Well, actually it's the mold that bothers me, not the story which was actually interesting to hear." Molly said, "But I'm sorry about your husband. And that I'm not going to rent the flat..." She started towards the doorway and the stairway to upstairs.

"Really?" Mrs. Hudson checked, waiting a moment before following her, "You sure I can't persuade you? I told you I'll have it cleaned..."

"Sorry, but no." Molly apologized, on their way up the stairs, "Good luck finding a tenant, though."

"I doubt I ever will." Mrs. Hudson sighed defeatedly, when they reached the top, "Even when I don't tell prospectives the story, they're still scared away. But usually it's Sherlock making some kind of racket, shoot or exploding things, upstairs not the mold. I thought I'd be able to sell it with him out for the day or who knows how long...oh well."

The women crossed the hallway and Mrs. Hudson held the door open for Molly, allowing her to exit 221 back onto Baker Street.

* * *

About to hail another taxicab, Molly happened to look across the street and see that there was a storefront for sale(store gone out of business due to competition from Speedy's).

She let her raised arm fall and crossed the street.

* * *

A half an hour later, Molly had paid the rent for five months in cash (she carried around large amounts because she didn't like banks and nobody would expect her to be carrying so much anyway) in exchange for not giving her name.

When the owner asked why she was being so "secretive", she answered that "Queen and Country" needed the building for "surveillance" (which was _sort of_ true). The money assured their patriotism.

* * *

(9:15 AM March 28, 2010.)

"So were going to Sherlock's for breakfast, are we?" Rich asked, wryly, when the cab he and Molly were in pulled up to the curb very close to (but across the street from) 221b Baker Street.

He laughed, because he was joking and saw the cafe next door. Molly rolled her eyes and paid the cab driver.

They got out the vehicle and stood in front of the (still) empty storefront Rich didn't know Molly owned.

Rich was still wearing his 'Jim from IT' outfit, his white buttondown washed a day and half earlier but also worn a day and a half earlier as he had slept in it while Molly was at work for the previous eight hours as well as the amount of time he was awake and stuck in her old house. Although he had showered while she was gone, he badly needed and wanted a changed of clothes. _His khakis hadn't even been cleaned at all! _

So, feeling dirty (in the less desirable sort of way) and self-conscious being in public like this, Rich glanced around once out in the open of Baker Street, making sure none of the passersby (right now, only an old woman on the other side of the road) could magically tell that he had worn his clothes three days in a row.

Molly was out of her white labcoat from work but still in the same outfit she had worn last night (different from and cleaner than, thankfully, the one she had worn the night she met Rich) to work (black slacks and a green longsleeved shirt). Hanging from her shoulder was her green totebag. She gazed across the street at 221 and the same old woman Rich had glanced at exiting its front door.

"Do you see that lady over there?" Molly checked, to which Rich nodded, "That's Mrs. Hudson. She's Sherlock's landlady. Her husband was a serial killer in America. Sherlock solved the case and got him extradited to Florida where he was executed."

"More Sherlock-obsessed trivia—" he attempted, but was quickly interrupted by:

"I need you to distract her." Molly ordered, "I'm going to break into her house."

"What are you going to take?" Rich questioned, taken aback and turning towards her, "Sherlock's undies?"

"I'm not taking anything." Molly declared, matter-of-factly, still staring across the street at 221, "I'm going to leave something behind."

"A love note?" Rich snarked.

"Something like that..." Molly affirmed, ambiguously

"How long do you need?" Rich asked, seriously and getting down to business.

"Ten minutes, at most." Molly answered.

"Okay." Rich agreed, "Easy."

* * *

(9:20 AM March 28, 2010.)

Speedy's crowded this morning, with most of its tables full of older, probably retired, customers nursing coffee and most of the standing room full of younger working adults late to work or on an early lunchbreak. Steam was rising from the big grill and the sounds of speech, cooking and the cash register filled the small cafe.

Standing in line at the counter of Speedy's, waiting to order with two other customers in front of her, was where Rich found Mrs. Hudson. He stood behind her and tapped her on the shoulder.

"May I have a word with you, Mrs. Hudson?" he asked...in his best American accent (it sounded southern but more Texan, like the old Wild West movies from the 1960's (which were what he was imitating)).

Mrs. Hudson, startled, jumped slightly and turned around. "About what?" she questioned, suspiciously (especially because the accent reminded her of her dead husband's), "Who are you?"

"The topic is a might sensitive, ma'am." Rich overdid the Texan, "So how's about we sit ourselves down over at yonder table and have us a nice chat."

"I'm not going anywhere with you until you tell me who you are!" Mrs. Hudson declared, "How do you know my name?!"

"I'm a reporter, ma'am, branching out into book-writing." Rich stated, "I'm writing a book about Southern Serial killers and your husband's name came up in my research. I flew all the way here from the good old US of A to interview you about him."

"I have nothing to say about my husband." Mrs. Hudson refused, "He's dead and gone and that's that. Good riddance to him. And I've never trusted Americans since him."

"You don't have to trust me, ma'am." Rich allowed, "You just have to tell me your story."

* * *

(9:25 AM March 28, 2010.)

Five minutes later, after insisting he pay for Mrs. Hudson's breakfast (and coffee for himself), Rich was seated across from Mrs. Hudson at a corner table of the small cafe.

"Well, my husband…he didn't seem like a serial killer." she recounted, "It took me so long to figure out he wasn't who he said he was, who he pretended to be. He was a very good actor, surprisingly. You don't think of killers and criminals having manners, being polite and friendly, but he was. Very spirited, too, a lot of energy and charisma. He could cook, better than I can and he could whittle, too. Make little figurines of animals out of wood with his favorite knife. The same knife he used when he...well, you know. He didn't have much money, only ever worked blue-collar jobs but he was impressive because he spoke well, in an accent a lot like yours, actually and he always knew what he was talking about. He was very smart, you see, he could have been somebody important if he wasn't, you know, a _coldblooded killer_… But he wasn't all nice, of course. Nobody is. And aside from the killing, which I didn't know about til after he was arrested, he also had a temper. Once we were married I saw the darker side of him, he was happy one moment and angry the next, that's when I realized his manners were all an act. He was very rude, violent even, behind closed doors. Always shouting, throwing things. He scared me, sometimes. But other times he was really...sweet."

"How'd you find out the truth about him?" Rich asked, sipping his coffee from the mug in one hand.

"He kept a suitcase of things I was never supposed to open," Mrs. Hudson answered, "But one day while he was out I opened it and looked inside."

"What was in there?" Rich followed-up, now actually interested.

"Hair." Mrs. Hudson stated, looking down as she cut sausage on the plate in front of her with her knife, "Enough to make several wigs. I didn't know what to make of it, at first. So I called my tenant, Sherlock Holmes. He was just a university student at the time, but he'd always been interested in science and crime and that sort of thing. And so when I showed him the hair in the suitcase he instantly figured out it was hair from the victims of the 'Wigmaker'. Dead women of different ages and backgrounds all found dead in Florida during the 1970's with only two things in common. Their throats were slit and their hair was cut. I never would've guessed, just from a suitcase full of hair, but Sherlock...he knew. He always knows. My husband may have been smart enough to get away with the murders and escape for over twenty years, but Sherlock is a genius. In fact, he's a real detective now consulting for Scotland Yard."

"Interesting." Rich nodded (although tuning out the sentences about Sherlock (whom he was very tired of hearing about)), "So do you still have the suitcase full of hair?"

"Heaven's no!" Mrs. Hudson shook her head, "Sherlock took it. He sent it, along with the location of my husband, to the FBI and within two days Scotland Yard had burst through my front door and dragged my husband away. A day later, they had sent him back to Florida for trial and I never saw him again. He wrote letters but I never answered them. I never even opened them. I did get the news, though, some years later that he was finally executed and didn't shed a tear."

"So what year was Mr. Hudson executed, again, ma'am?" Rich checked.

_"Mr. Hudson?"_ Mrs. Hudson repeated, taken aback. She set her fork and knife back down on her plate and looked straight up across the table at Rich.

"Your husband, ma'am." Rich clarified, still using the Texas accent.

"My husband's name wasn't 'Mr. Hudson'." Mrs. Hudson exclaimed, "I returned to my maiden name once I found out what he had done. If you're researching my husband you should know his name!"

"Sorry." Rich apologized, quickly and embarassedly, "My mistake, ma'am."

"And you haven't written a word of what I've said down." Mrs. Hudson added, "How're you going to use what I've said for your book without doing that?!"

"I have a good memory...?" Rich attempted, sheepishly.

"If that were the case then you would remember my husband's real name." Mrs. Hudson declared, folding her arms angrily, "So who are you really?! Some sort of scam artist?! Stay away from me or I'll call the police!"

"Okay, okay!" Rich cried, Texan accent slipping, "I'm leaving!" He jumped up and sprinted out of the cafe, all of its occupants staring at him on his speedy way out.

Mrs. Hudson just watched him go, a stern look on her face and her arms still folded.

"Americans..." she grumbled, once he was gone.

* * *

(9:20 AM March 28, 2010.)

Because she was only "grabbing a quick nibble" at the next door cafe, Mrs. Hudson had left her front door unlocked. Through the unlocked front door, Molly slipped into 221 Baker Street.

Inside, she followed the path she had seen Mrs. Hudson take a month earlier to the kitchen where she found the keys to the basement flat, 221c. Back in the hall, she used them to open the barred door.

Down in the dusty and moldy basement, unlived-in since a killer had whittled lifeless wooden animals in his workshop, Molly opened her totebag. She pulled out an old pair of shoes and set them down on the floor.

* * *

(9:30 AM March 28, 2010.)

Still sprinting once outside on the sidewalk and away from Speedy's Cafe, Rich bumped into the walking Molly, exiting 221 Baker Street.

"Excuse me." she said, and then stepped around him and walked away as if she didn't know him continued down the pavement until she reached the stalled taxicab(the driver of which she h ad told to come back in fifteen minutes after dropping them off) at the curb and got inside.

Rich was left just standing there, staring and blinking confusedly, and wondering what to do next. He got his answer when the taxi circled around the block and stopped to let him in.

* * *

In the back of the cab, Rich sat next to Molly. "So how did it go?" he asked her.

"Don't ask me that in here." Molly refused to answer.

"Why not?" Rich dismissed, "The driver doesn't care. He probably isn't even paying attention." He chuckled, glancing past the miniature TV screens and transparent divider at the back of the driver's head.

"We both know that's not true." Molly countered, "We met because of a cab driver."

"Well, that's different." Rich disagreed, _"He_ was different."

"But he didn't look it, did he?" Molly reminded, "How many other people do you see everyday that look like nothing to you? Any one of them could be 'different', too. _All_ of them could."

"It wouldn't be 'different', then, anymore." Rich literalized, cheekily, "If everyone was."

"Exactly." Molly agreed, with a nod.

"So you mean to tell me you go around worrying that everyone's could be secret genius," Rich snickered, "Just a hair away from figuring you out?"

"Yes." Molly affirmed, "Everybody is a potential threat. Being careful is what keeps me safe."

"Well, if everyone's a secret genius like you are, then why focus on Sherlock?" Rich inquired.

"Because with him, it isn't a_ 'secret'_." Molly specified, "He flaunts it and so I have confirmation._ That's_ what makes him interesting."

"So what about _me?"_ Rich asked, "Am_ I_ a secret genius too?"

"No." Molly stated, matter-of-factly, "I've met _you."_

Rich folded his arms, rolling eyes and then looking out the window next to him. He could see his and Molly's reflection, as well as the the buildings and vehicles and people all passing by (slowly, due to the London traffic).

"I'm hungry." he said, after a few silent minutes.

"You didn't eat at Speedy's?" Molly replied.

"No." Rich responded, looking back over at her, "I didn't get the chance.

"Why not?" Molly questioned, raising her eyebrow.

"Well, let's just say I had to make a 'speedy' exit." Rich punned.

On Molly's face remained a blank, vaguely annoyed and suspicious, look complete with raised eyebrow. She didn't appreciate the joke.

Rich smiled unenthusiastically.

Molly sighed.

"We're going to the hospital." she told him, "Because I work there, I can eat at the canteen for free. And so can you if I bring you in."

"Good." Rich grinned, happy because he had no cash left in his to buy food for himself after purchasing Mrs. Hudson's breakfast (and himself coffee which he hadn't even gotten to finish).

* * *

(9:52 AM March 28, 2010.)

Saint Bartholomew's Hospital canteen's breakfast hours were just finishing up and so Rich piled the last bit of lukewarm fare from the morning meal onto his tray, along with some continental items and a new cup of coffee. Doctors and nurses in uniforms, and a few visitors had all been all throwing away their trash and leaving the wide room just as Molly and Rich were arriving, and so the two were alone in the room aside for a janitor wiping down the tables a few stray others at various tables chatting after their meals.

"So what happened with Mrs. Hudson?" Molly asked. She had a sytrofoam cup of coffee in one hand and a fork picking at the one food on her plate, eggs (which she was eating because protein was good for the brain and the metabolism).

"I told her I was reporter from Texas, did the accent and everything, and that I was writing a book about her late husband." Rich recounted, "I didn't know his name wasn't Hudson..."

"If you can't even fool Mrs. Hudson, how can I trust you to fool Sherlock?" Molly questioned.

"I was working with limited information." Rich excused, "But you've told me all about Sherlock so I'll be able to fool him easier."

"You still have to prove that to me." Molly warned, "If you fail...well, you can guess what will happen to you, then."

Rich gulped but smirked.

"Should I be scared?" He tried to laugh off, nervously, then adding, "Besides, you should thank me. I gave you enough time to do your breaking and entering thing, didn't I?"

"I didn't break in." Molly corrected, "The door was unlocked and I used her keys to get into the basement."

"And what did you take—I mean leave behind?" Rich asked.

"Oh, just a pair of old shoes." Molly shrugged, off-handedly.

"Shoes?" Rich repeated, surprised, "If they're yours then that's a bit of a giveaway, don't you think?"

"They're not mine." Molly smiled.

"Whose, then?" Rich asked, now actually interested.

And so Molly said, "A boy named Car Powers..."

* * *

**And so there you have it! I hope you still like it! **

**Next chapter will be an explanation of how Molly knew Carl. Hopefully it will be written soon. If all the TV shows I watch seasons' end then there is a better chance of that. **

**Please review! **


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